If I Could Only
by DREAMIRIS
Summary: Sherlock Holmes never expected to fall for anyone... certainly not his Anatomy professor. But will Dr. Watson reciprocate his feelings? Unilock. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**I have no idea about how colleges in Britain are because I'm just out of high school and I'm not British, so if there's anything wrong, please let me know and I'll correct it. x**

**Also, this is unbeta'd, so feel free to point out any errors that you find in the story, I'll be most grateful! :)**

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**Ch. 1**

It was the beginning of the new semester. Sherlock had topped again, and he was getting very bored of it. He looked at his annual report sheet as he lay in his bed cosily, under layers of sheets, fully clothed and ready before time for the first time. A or A* in every single of them... except for the parts which said "Responsibility"... etc.

Physics : A*

Organic Chemistry : A*

Physical Chemistry : A*

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Reading down, Sherlock came to the more interesting fields for marking... They always were so diverse in their grades. He decided that he liked his social grades more than his cognitive ones.

Responsibility: a straight D

Discipline: a beautiful E

Interest In Class: Sherlock thought that there wasn't any letter in the English alphabet which could give a definition to this aspect.

Participation in University activities: C... he would have to work on that

Regard for University Property: Again... no alphabet in the English language.

Interaction with peers: E again... He needed improvement in that, make that an F at least.

Overall remarks: _Although a very bright child_ (Sherlock huffed at that), _he lacks direction and motivation_... Sherlock frowned at that and suddenly sprang up from his bed. In ten minutes, 221B Baker Street looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Or a typhoon. Or a cyclone. Or all three of them. He finally found what he was looking for. His last year's annual report sheet. He smirked at the 'Overall Remarks' column. The teacher had actually written the same remark for the second time this year. Word to word.

Not anymore, he remembered that Mr. Blake had left St. Bart's, or he at least planned to, going by how morose he looked when he said goodbye to all of them before the holidays. Sherlock thought how someone could be even remotely sad while saying goodbye to uni students, especially to him. Well, Mr. Blake had always been an oddity. Even Molly agreed with him.

Speaking of which... Molly hadn't arrived yet. Sherlock always insisted that he should drive, seeing as Molly was new to driving, and frankly, she ran into anyone who even mistook the tar-paved road for the footwalk. She could be a valuable asset to traffic police, Sherlock thought, seeing as how effectively she could keep pedestrians off the main roads.

He looked at his watch: twenty minutes to nine. The doors of St. Bart's closed at nine o'clock, not that he couldn't jump over the walls, but he had Molly to think about as well. He wished skipping uni altogether could've been an option, but it wasn't. He really did not want a certain fat git to climb up the stairs and drag him away to his house for such a trivial excuse. He was happier here, with Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner. He liked little old ladies, however tedious and chatty they could be. They always made sure he was cosy and comfortable, and that they remained his housekeeper, despite their claims to the opposite.

A horn blared in the street. Although it was rush hour and there were many horns blaring in the street, it was only Molly in Sherlock's experience who in her excitement could press the horn that hard. He grabbed his backpack and his cellphone, smoothed down his short hair (Mrs. Hudson had insisted on a haircut and he was down with flu so he really couldn't protest) and donned a jacket over his jumper, rushing down the stairs speedily to greet her and her second hand car.

"Hi Sherlock!" she waved at him happily, while discreetly pointing at someone sitting beside her: Gavin or... G somebody, her new boyfriend, probably. Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw open the door to the seat next to the driver's seat.

"Get out, or I'll have to sit on your lap!" he announced a royal decree. He didn't understand what Gavin was doing there. He didn't even go to St. Bart's or any other university. Then he remembered that he worked in an automobile shop two streets away from the uni building.

Molly and Gavin... maybe, stole a look at each other. She looked embarrassed, "Sherlock," he recognised it as her pleading voice, "you can take the back seat. Please-"

"No!" he said firmly, "I always sit in front. I never sit in the backseat," He threw a murderous glance at the aforementioned and inviting seat, "G, erm... Gavin, go behind. I always sit in the front. Besides, we're getting late," said he, very self important.

"It's Greg," said he uncomfortably, gritting his teeth.

"I can't be bothered to learn any more than ten names," he snapped at the unassuming guy, "now get out or I'll have to sit in your lap, which isn't a very pleasant experience at all."

Molly grew red to the roots of her hair with embarrassment and looked at Greg sadly. Greg attempted a placating smile and squeezed her hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes, because they looked like they were being separated for eternity, instead of only ten/fifteen minutes. Unable to contain any longer, Sherlock threw open Molly's side of the door, "You go back too," he ordered. Molly looked puzzled.

"You are in no condition to drive! Go behind on the back seat with Graham... I'll drive."

Molly smiled; it sounded like a good deal, and she didn't have the heart to correct Sherlock on Greg's name. Sherlock ignited the engine, taking one look in the rear view mirror at the happy couple kissing in the back seat. He wanted to draw their attention to the third person in the car with a little cough like Mycroft usually did, but he smiled instead when he saw how happy Molly looked.

Although throughout the journey, Sherlock did not really let them forget that he was there. Whenever Greg grew a little too comfortable or a little too touchy-feely with Molly, Sherlock took a sharp turn, making Greg's head smack against the glass, and making her burst into giggles. She was a little too innocent to believe that Sherlock was doing this on purpose, but Greg could tell, and he sent him dangerous death glares via the dashboard mirror while Sherlock simply grinned away like the Cheshire Cat. They reached the campus just in time. Molly gave Greg a goodbye kiss as they hurried into the campus past the canteen, and Sherlock ran into someone. Molly, who had gone several steps ahead, registered Sherlock's absence and noticed the tall gangly teen on the ground along with a slightly older, shorter man massaging his head, also fallen down.

"Sherlock!" she gave a little squeak and rushed to help him and the gentleman, who had been carrying an armload of papers. She started apologizing profusely as Sherlock helped her collect those papers under her fierce glare. He made a small stack of it, as Molly gathered the majority of them and apologized to the man in Sherlock's place. He was short, blond, had geeky glasses and he looked like a typical professor should.

"It's okay," he smiled good-naturedly at her, a kind smile, "You shouldn't have to apologize." Sherlock handed him his papers, staring back at this man defiantly, who was looking at him pointedly, as if expecting him to say sorry for crashing into him. Before Molly could warn the older man that no one ever expected an apology from the great Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock blurted out, "Yes, you shouldn't apologize, Molly... come on, let's go."

Sherlock took her hand and marched across, only to be stopped by a clear of the other man's throat, "You should keep your eyes open when you walk, you know."

Molly closed her eyes, praying fervently to any God who was listening to her to not tip Sherlock off. But Sherlock, ever the stubborn brat, frowned at him, "S'cuse me?"

The man strode over to both of them, speaking very patiently and in a very steady voice, with an underlying hint of annoyance, "Well, thanks to you, I'll have to rearrange this stack of papers again."

Sherlock gave him a winning smile, "Then good luck with that, _professor_! I trust I have given you enough work to be busy with for the lunch," and before the other man could answer, he strode off with Molly at his heels, while she threw back an apologetic glance at him. The blond man merely smiled at her resignedly, thinking why he even resorted to teaching when such students still existed in the world.

* * *

They were lucky that it was the first day because Sherlock and Molly could easily skip the assembly and sit in some deserted corner of the grounds.

"Sherlock?" she called his name tentatively, to which he only responded with an acknowledging 'hmm', "That man you crashed with... was he really a professor or were you just trying to mock him for looking like one?"

Instantly, Sherlock drew out a business card from the pocket of his jeans and handed it to her. It read:

Dr. John H. Watson

Ph. D Biology, MSc Biological Sciences

7957905046

Molly looked appalled, "Where did you get that?"

Sherlock simply shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, scribbling in his notebook certain reactions he was going to perform after school, "It fell down. I picked it up as I collected his papers. Might help me one day if I wanted to pose as a fake Ph. D..."

Molly laughed, giving it back to him, "In that case, you should keep it carefully."

Sherlock smirked at her. Only she got his humour all the time and that's why he liked her company, besides using her as an assistant for his various experiments. A bell rang, signalling the end of the start-of-the-semester assembly and it was time for them to go to their classes.

"What have you got first?" she asked, running her eyes through her schedule.

"Organic Chemistry, theory, Room no. B14," said he disinterestedly, while Molly shone with happiness, "Me too! I wish it's Mr. Blake this year as well."

Sherlock helped her up, "I thought you considered him an oddball."

"Doesn't mean I can't like him. After all, you're an oddball too, but you're still my best friend."

Sherlock froze upon hearing it, and Molly turned around to look at him, slightly worried, "What happened, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at her as if she was an alien, but in which case also he wouldn't have looked at her so intently. Finally after minutes of motionless staring and patient take-your-time looks from Molly, he took a breath down his oxygen deprived lungs, and swallowed. No one had ever said that to him.

"I'm your... best... friend?"

Molly looked at him incredulously, and then broke into adorable giggles, "Of course you are, why else would I put up with you and your strange experiments?"

He thought very hard for a moment as her words made perfect sense, "Yeah... you're right..."

"So, you ready to go to class now?"

He nodded, smiling a little to himself at being called someone's best friend.

* * *

Their first class was Organic Chemistry, Sherlock's all time favourite. He settled in the last bench comfortably, arms crossed over the chest, legs stretched to their fullest with Molly beside him, who wanted to sit in the front rows, but Sherlock never liked the front rows. In the back benches, he could do whatever he liked if he ever got bored with the lecture. The professor hadn't arrived yet, and Molly was begging him to sit with her in the first benches, but he ignored her pleas. After all, she could snivel only till the professor arrived. And when he did, Molly looked horror-struck. It was the same blond young man, Dr. Watson.

"Sherlock!" she whispered to him frantically, reeling with panic, while Sherlock frowned at that man, remembering his medical qualifications, "He's _our_ professor! Oh no, now he's going to mark us down for treating him so disrespectfully-"

"Good Morning," her voice was drowned by Professor Watson's mellow voice, "I am Dr. Watson, and I'm your anatomy professor for this session-"

Sherlock and Molly straightened up in their seats. It was Organic Chemistry, not Anatomy, but Molly believed otherwise, "Sherlock! We've come in the wrong class, oh no!"

He frowned too; he had checked his schedule earlier, but Molly was hell-bent on leaving the class, "Come on Sherlock!" said she, tugging at the sleeve of his jumper, "We need to reach the right class quickly, we can't be late on the first day!"

Sherlock tried to calm her down, but to no avail as she continued her hysterics, "You must have checked the schedule wrong! This must be Anatomy class! After all, who has heard of a professor going to the wrong class?" saying this, she was successful in pulling him out of the chair and Sherlock relented. They tried to creep out of the classroom as silently as possible.

A mellow voice arrested them, "Wherever do you think you're going?"

Molly and Sherlock turned guiltily, well... Molly turned guiltily, Sherlock looked unaffected. Recognition crossed Dr. Watson's face as he suppressed a smirk, maybe at the thought of finally punishing that smartass kid for not saying sorry. Sherlock looked coolly at him, body language lazy and uninterested while Molly looked scared to death.

"Well?" he demanded.

"S-s-sorry, p-professor..." Molly stammered while Sherlock stifled a yawn, "We've come into the... uh, the... wrong c-class. We.. erm, we are students... I mean, we have Chem-Chemistry now-"

Dr. Watson wondered what was wrong with this odd couple. The boy rarely spoke anything, leaving the girl to do all the talking and she clearly wasn't good at it. He supposed it made sense, because the only time he had opened his mouth, he had been so condescending...

"It _IS_ Chemistry!" someone announced from the other end of the class, "Dunno why this nutter's here, teaching Anatomy!"

John frowned in the direction of the speaker, who had effectively camouflaged himself amongst the many students. Sherlock rolled his eyes, finally managing to show Molly the schedule. They were in the right class, Dr. Watson was in the wrong class. He realised this too as he checked his own schedule, and turned a violent shade of crimson, right till his ears. If it was awkward for a student to end up in the wrong class, only God knew how embarrassing it was for a teacher to end up in the wrong classroom. Sherlock felt a sort of sympathy for the new teacher as he rushed out of the class in top speed, and then frowned to himself, wondering where that sentiment had come from. Beside him, Molly was half-laughing, half-relieved at being in the right classroom. They could still hear Dr. Watson steer his way through crowds, calling out to people to make way for him, "New teacher, wrong class, coming through!"

Sherlock joined in the laughter too, allowing himself to revel at Dr. Watson's inability to read a map.

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**For this one story, I made the meeting between Sherlock and John different from canon, so please tell me if you like the idea :)**

**I have no knowledge about the degrees either. I just googled them out.**

**Teen Sherlock with short hair inspired by Mr. Cumberbatch in 'Fortysomething'. Geeky glasses from Nativity!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Unbeta'd work... typos are bound to be there. Please don't hesitate to point them out :)**

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**Ch. 2**

Finally they ended up in Anatomy, with Molly dreading her grades and Sherlock dreading boredom. He had been only two hours into his first day, and he was already mind-numbingly, sickeningly bored. First of all, the professors were all stupid, and they never even acknowledged his "helpful" comments about the 243 errors that he had found in his new Physics textbook. But no one ever dared to commit the mistake of giving him a private lecture about keeping his mouth shut. Not that he was fond of such lectures. All the professors had had a firsthand experience of making Sherlock Holmes wait after class and then having him launch into a monologue about their private matters.

Somehow, all the news always managed to reach a certain well-dressed, pompous, arrogant fat dick sitting behind a desk every time. Not that he complained. Whenever he was forced to have a family dinner (if you could call it a family dinner at all with the amount of glaring and the niceties) with his parents and Mycroft, they would never stop glaring. And that feeling was simply wonderful.

All that Sherlock had received the whole day was resentment from his teachers and his peers for being an insufferable know-it-all, bullying from some seniors when they had tried to flirt with Molly and Sherlock had stood up for her, and an unfortunate incident with scalding hot coffee.

All in all, the day had sucked. And, now, an annoying buzz was taking over Sherlock's mind, something which couldn't be eased by even the pathetic attempts that Molly made at jokes and her odyssey about her cat(s). He sighed to himself for the umpteenth time as she told her friends about one of those insufferable homeless kittens outside her flat who purred a lot when no one looked, and how one day someone kicked it and it stopped purring and died.

Another five minutes and Sherlock would start deconstructing and laying bare the scandalous history of the girl who was chattering away with Molly.

The professor was late, perhaps because the class was right after the lunch and because his digestion was more important than Sherlock getting murderous. Whoever he was.

Despite Molly's fears and her nervous chatter with her girlfriends who despised Sherlock and continuously asked her why she put up with him, Sherlock sincerely hoped that it was some old teacher who was completely fed up with him. That Dr... whatever-his-name-was, was a newbie obviously. He looked too young to have the proper amount of experience dealing with rebellious uni students. Sherlock hated newbies. They acted as if the weight of the world rested upon their shoulders and that they had to completely commit themselves to the lost cause of teaching.

Sherlock glanced at his watch, and at the students wreaking havoc on the millennia-old benches. He wondered why he went to a university at all. And that too St. Bart's. He could've easily got into Oxford or something similar, not that he wanted to...

Dr. Watson, to Sherlock's utter dismay, arrived, this time in the right class of course, seeing as this was his classroom after all. Molly hid her face behind her textbook, and Sherlock's eyes were in the danger of rolling out of his head. He smiled politely at the students, starting with proper introductions.

"Good afternoon, my name's Dr. Watson..." his eyes roamed around the class, taking in each student and finally settled on the bored figure of Sherlock Holmes sitting in the last bench with his sidekick, that little girl hiding behind her textbook. He paused for some time, wondering if he would be able to get rid of that student, or rather Sherlock thought that that was what was going inside Dr. Watson's mind. But the professor simply looked away with raised eyebrows as he delved into an undoubtedly practised speech about the importance of the subject. Sherlock sighed a long all-suffering sigh, burying his head into his palms as Molly became more attentive, relieved that Dr. Watson hadn't noticed her.

Truly, Dr. Watson was one of _those_ newbies. A perfect and classical example of them. He was terribly dedicated and patient, and he went into the subject matter in depth right from the first class.

Give me a break, Sherlock cried out inwardly. He wanted to go and staple his head to something. Anything at all.

Halfway during the class, when Dr. Watson had asked them a simple question regarding something to do with someone or something's cardiovascular system, and when no one managed to answer, not even Molly, who then realised that she had been far too busy with Greg over the holidays, the professor's eyes settled on the lanky teen stretched out comfortably as if he were lounging on a couch.

"What about you, last bench? Do you have something to contribute?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at 'last bench'. Just because the last bench had the good fortune to seat him, it didn't mean that it also got naming privileges. Molly risked a glance at the professor. His eyes weren't on her. Sherlock straightened up in his seat, not even bothering to stand up, pondering whether the question was going to be worth his time or not, "Didn't get you there, professor."

Dr. Watson crossed his arms over his chest, the edge of his mouth twitching and Sherlock found himself unconsciously watching it. He quickly gave himself a mental shake, wondering what other disastrous effects boredom could have on his mind.

"Perhaps you could march over to these empty rows in front," he pointed out, indicating at them, "Then maybe your hearing could benefit a little."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, yawning slightly, "No, I'm okay here." Even Molly seemed okay with her current seat as she desperately tried to avoid Dr. Watson for some reason only God knew about. The rest of the students gave a few titters and died down.

Dr. Watson licked his lips and looked down at his shoes, choosing to cut him some slack because it was his first day here, "I asked the class to point out the anatomical differences between a reptile heart and a human heart-"

"Pfft!" Sherlock looked annoyed for having been roused out of his comfort zone for such a trivial question. This was so beneath him, "Crocodiles have four chambered hearts, an exception," he replied condescendingly, "And anyway, that was _last_ year!"

Dr. Watson smiled, throwing him a faux-amazed look, "Oh good, at least you know that bit, Mr...?"

"Holmes," he replied as his eyes narrowed at his insinuation. Every student looked blank. In utter disbelief, he turned to Molly, who only whispered to him, slightly embarrassed, "I know it's from last year, I just can't remember it!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up, slouching against the wall as he took in a deep breath enough to last him for the whole answer. The whole class turned to him, expecting the inevitable as a string of words came out from Sherlock's mouth in quick succession, going into explicit details of the differences in the anatomies and the circulatory systems and what not. Dr. Watson went from shock to disbelief to wonder and at last to thoroughly amazed at this insincere-looking young man as Sherlock went on and on, not able to stop himself from showing off. His eyes grew wider and wider, and the rest of the students except Molly let out a orchestrated groan of exasperation, and when Sherlock finally stopped, John didn't realise that he had mouthed "Brilliant!" to himself. Sherlock's lips quirked upwards at that in a quick twitch of a smirk. Molly, as always, hoped she could have answered that.

Dr. Watson cleared his throat, "Right, ahem... thank you, Mr. Holmes." He looked like he wanted to say something along the lines of 'shame on you others, learn something from "that last bencher"', but he simply let out a defeated exhale, and carried on with his lecture, leaving Sherlock to be super bored. Again. He stretched his legs, scraping the desk noisily against the floor, cracking his knuckles and his elbows very audibly accompanied with a groan.

Dr. Watson turned at him, his mouth slightly ajar, peering at the student through his glasses with disbelief. In all the years of his life as a student, he had never seen someone so impertinent and disrespectful. Sherlock saw that he had the professor's attention and spoke, "Can we move along to _this_ year? We know this stuff!"

By 'we', Sherlock simply meant 'I'. Dr. Watson straightened up, adjusting his tie, "If you're finding this lecture repetitive, I suggest you lie down and go off to sleep."

Everyone gasped at that. No teacher had ever said that to them. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and buried his head in the crook of his arm, pretending to fall fast asleep with a gentle snore. Dr. Watson simply shook his head at the stubborn student and went back to his lecture.

After five minutes of listening to his mellow voice and trying his best to fall asleep, Sherlock found out that he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried. In fact the harder he tried, the more sleep tried to elude him. He sat back up with a yawn and announced, "I can't sleep!" Beside him, Molly looked simply miserable and buried herself deeper behind her textbook, reconsidering sitting with Sherlock during the classes.

John felt like he could burn the whole building down. His first day was extremely bad till now. And this student was making it worse. He turned around, grinding his teeth together, "Then why don't you try studying?"

"I know it all," said he matter-of-factly, while Molly looked mildly horrified at Sherlock arguing with the new teacher on the first day. She tried to silence him by pinching his arm and kicking him under the desk, but Sherlock looked like he was determined to make this day the worst day of Dr. Watson's life.

"Great, but I'm sorry I can't help you there," the professor stretched his lips in a placating smile and returned back to the white board, returning to his explanations. Sherlock frowned at this man, this incredibly patient man. Any other person would have flipped out by now, "You might want to take a walk outside then, Mr. Holmes," said he as he continued writing on the board, making classification tables, not really meaning his words, "seeing as you know everything and that it's pointless for you to sit in the class."

"No, thank you," said Sherlock with a yawn stretching his features, "I'm quite comfortable here - Ow!" This time Molly's aim under the table was quite successful as Sherlock succumbed to the momentary pain breaking out in his leg. Dr. Watson said nothing, he just turned back to the board resignedly and carried on despite Sherlock's many attempts to sabotage his lesson.

Bell rang. It was self study hour, a quick glance at his schedule told him that. Molly gave him a weak smile and her lips curved downwards almost instantly as she explained how one of her friends with a name that half the girls you know have had just managed to pass the previous semester and that she needed her help. So she walked away with that friend towards the library or whatever free place they got for themselves. Sherlock threw her a sulk and remained seated in his place thinking about what to do. He approached Dr. Watson, "Hey, erm... professor," he started awkwardly.

"Mr. Holmes," said he, without even turning to acknowledge his presence as he rearranged his papers. He kept a neat desk, Sherlock observed, but by force of habit, not by choice. Even his tie remained in his place, owing to the unconscious tugs to set it straight.

"Is this... erm, classroom going to be free for the next hour?"

"Yeah," John cursed his autopilot when he blurted that out. Before he could change his response, Sherlock gave him a winning smile and settled down on one of the front benches, taking out "A Brief History of Criminal Justice" and burying himself deep within it. John stared at the boy for several moments, thinking about what to say. He wanted to ask him why he was here. Seeing that Sherlock was quiet for the first time, he nodded to himself and strode over to him, "Show me your schedule."

Sherlock extracted himself from the very interesting book and threw him a glare with all his teenage rebelliousness and bad temper in all its glory, but John did not back away.

"Why?"

"I need to know if you're bunking any of your classes."

Sherlock smiled mischievously at the professor. He really was a newbie. He couldn't stop himself from laughing silently as he dug into his backpack and passed him two exactly identical schedules with some changes in the classes. John looked from one to another in confusion, "What's this?"

"Two schedules, one of which is the actual one, and the other is something I use to fool teachers who catch me bunking class," said he without lifting his head from his book, "Best of luck, professor."

The teacher smirked at the teen retreating back to his book as he cast his eyes over the two timetables. He smiled to himself as if he had found the difference and handed one of them back to Sherlock after a few minutes, "Well then, here you go. I'll keep the fake one as a souvenir."

Sherlock's eyes widened with surprise at that. It was indeed his real schedule. No other teacher had ever figured it out, "How did you get it?"

Dr. Watson looked mildly pleased with himself as he pointed at the morning timeslot, "You had Organic Chemistry theory this morning and you're obviously not going to bunk the first class, are you?" he pointed at the 9:30-10:30 time slot in the copy in his hand, which read 'Mathematics', "Besides, if you had been fooling me, you would have given me the wrong schedule instead of showing off."

"Can't ever forget that Organic chemistry class, can you professor?" Sherlock smirked at him, while trying not to come across as interested in the man's above average intellect. He made a mental note to further improve upon his fake schedule, now that someone had cracked it.

Dr. Watson tried not to grow red at the memory as he settled into his chair. They sat in silence for the next hour as Sherlock remained buried in his books and John in his papers and notes. Almost once in every minute, Sherlock's eyes drifted to the oblivious man sitting on the not-so-comfy-looking chair as he ran his fingers through his ash blond hair, immersed in his books, preparing for the next lesson intently and sometimes drawing out his phone to type out an occasional text. Sherlock wanted to laugh at his sincere efforts. There weren't many serious students in St. Bart's.

Bell rang and Sherlock slipped out of there, wondering how many pages he had actually read. Dr. Watson stared after him for some time, silently thanking God for keeping the boy quieter than he was in class, and then returned to his books.

* * *

Being a likeable person, John got himself a few friends during the lunch break itself, and one of them was a fellow called Abbott. They walked to the bus stop together, chatting a little about their respective first days.

"You won't believe it," said John, scratching the back of his neck with his nails, thinking about how stupid it had been, "I ended up in the wrong class first, and it practically sucked."

Abbott patted his back sympathetically, "Happens to everyone. At least it was your first day, students didn't know you."

John shrugged his shoulders, "Right. On the first day of my teaching career, Abbott! God, they were laughing at me like madmen and I felt so stupid."

Abbott gave him a reassuring smile, "I'm telling you, Watson. Shit happens to everyone. You will not believe half the embarrassing things that have happened to me!"

"Oh, really?" John crossed his arms over his chest, his face interrogative, "Tell me about it."

Abbott looked like a cat caught with a pet bird in his mouth, "Look, I'm not exactly comfortable with sharing all of it, okay?" John looked at him pointedly, "Right, because nothing's ever happened to you right on the first day!"

Suddenly John remembered a tall lanky bored teen in navy blue jumper, "And there was this strange fellow in my class-"

Abbott's eyes lit up with amusement, "Holmes?" John nodded, wondering if he was some sort of a celebrity, "Yeah, how did you-"

Before he could finish, Abbott gave him what seemed like a congratulatory pat on his back and an amused chuckle, but his eyes were completely sympathetic, "When you say strange, he is the first one that comes to my mind. In fact to everyone's mind."

John soon found out that Sherlock Holmes was the consistent topper of his year, and now it served to make him feel even more embarrassed. Up till now, he had thought that the answer to that question had been a fluke, that Holmes, by sheer chance of luck (even though what had come from his lips had seemed simply brilliant at that moment) had known the answer to that one question only, and that if he had asked him about something else, maybe he wouldn't have been able to answer.

"But let me warn you about something," said he, "Never ever ask him to meet you after the class, no matter what he says or what he does, alright?"

John nodded, keeping it in his mind, wondering why was that so. Holmes had stayed behind that day, and he had been so much more tolerable than in class. While he slowly drifted off to other topics with Abbott, he couldn't really erase that out-of-the-ordinary teenager out of his thoughts.

Jeanette greeted him with a brief peck on his cheek as he entered his flat, "So, how was professor's first day?"

He tried his best not to frown and push her away. Jeanette was extremely cheerful today, and she acted like she hadn't broken up with him a month ago, "What are you doing here?" His voice was a little too bitter than he wanted it to sound like.

She settled down on his armchair daintily, leaning forward so that her cleavage was a little visible. John turned away, watching the street out of his window as he put down his bag and reached out for his glasses to read the bills and the letters lying on the table, sitting down on the chair opposite to her.

"Let's have dinner tonight," said she, reaching out for his hand, and taking away the papers from his grip.

John withdrew his hand, fighting for the last scraps of his dignity. "Paul left you, didn't he?" he asked through gritted teeth.

She smiled provocatively, the smile that John was never able to resist, the smile that always made him to want to kiss her, "Forget about Paul, _I miss you_... And has anyone told you how good you look in these cute geeky glasses?"

Jeanette stood up and strode over to John, the weight of 120 pounds crushing his thighs as she settled on them unceremoniously, leaning over to join her lips with those of John's. He returned her kiss only briefly before it could grow more heated, "Eight o'clock," said she breathlessly as they broke away, "what do you think?"

John looked away, his rational mind wanting to say no, but the part which was still attached to Jeanette was screaming yes. In this battle between self-respect and the longing for her companionship, the latter won as John leaned forward and planted a small kiss on her lips, "Okay." Jeanette smiled against his lips as she smoothed his hair, "See you then," with that, she rose and walked out, leaving behind a troubled John wondering why he gave in to her again and again.

* * *

Back in the car as Sherlock drove Molly to her flat, Greg was there again, and although they weren't kissing all that much, their conversation was still appalling. Sherlock could stand Molly alone, as a friend. And then, her boyfriends would come along and suddenly, Sherlock would feel the irresistible need to phase out, which was a tempting offer right now but hugely disastrous, seeing as he was the one who was driving. Molly completely changed when she was with Greg, she became "girly", opting for skirts instead of jeans, with that horrible red lipstick and eyeliner. She became much more nicer and sweeter (as if she wasn't already) and talked about things that were beyond his comprehension, and the thought that such things even existed annoyed him a lot. Instead of tying her hair in a neat ponytail, she chose to leave it open, often covering her head with a beanie. It did make her look cute, but it irritated Sherlock that he wasn't entitled to such niceties, even though HE was supposed to be her best friend.

Sherlock had brought this upon himself. He should have taken the backseat, he should never have opted to drive during the morning, and now they were treating him as their personal chauffeur.

He was more than grateful when he saw Baker Street approaching. Without a goodbye, he closed the front door loudly and retreated to his rooms, leaving Molly to take care of the rest of the driving.

He settled in his armchair with the laptop on his thighs, thinking about what to type in the search box. He drew out the business card and stared at it for several moments, thinking about what else he would find about him on the internet other than the fact that he used to play rugby in his teenage years or that he had an alcoholic brother who also happened to have walked out on his wife. Finally he decided to get on with it, and typed into the dialog box "John Watson". He couldn't have had a more commonplace name.

Sherlock finally stumbled upon the man in pursuit and came across some of his published research papers from his Ph. D years, and some accolades from his university years. A typical boring professor. No Facebook profile. Nothing much than what he already had deduced from the state of his clothes.

But when he recalled Dr. Watson cracking the problem of his fake schedule, he reconsidered the description that he gave him. He drew his timetable out. He had anatomy on Mondays and Thursdays.

Sherlock wondered whether he was making an exception to his ten-name rule.

* * *

**Instead of John searching for Sherlock on the internet, Sherlock searched... I know, it's the opposite. Please tell me you don't dislike the idea.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Ch. 3**

* * *

Sherlock took his words back. However (mildly) intelligent the man might be, the lecture (and he) was dreary as hell.

Only the first twenty minutes had been a little apart from the general description of boring because they had had a quick test to evaluate how sincere they had been during the holidays. Sherlock found the test perfectly dull except for the last two questions that surprisingly took more time than he had expected them to. Almost as if Dr. Watson had set those two questions specifically for him. Beside him, Molly looked perfectly comfortable with the questions save the last two. Sherlock finished his paper in fifteen minutes, and then debated whether to go to the professor's desk and submit the paper, or keep the paper with himself and stare at the next less-boring thing; the beetle hovering over Dr. Watson's head.

One of his options involved getting up from his place, and the other involved getting bored, none of which were acceptable to him. So he simply drew his cell phone out and started reading a web article he had saved beforehand. Thankfully, the network pierced through the thick, sour cream walls of the classroom. Molly stole a glance at what he was doing and returned back to her test. She had no time to be scandalised at Sherlock's antics.

And Dr. Watson, ever the sincere teacher had confiscated it as soon as he had spotted him reading under the desk. Sherlock had made no attempt to claim his phone back, because he knew that it was useless to do so. Not that he felt annoyed. He'd have to wait five minutes after the class to get his phone back, won't he?

And now, fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was fed up with it. He was almost regretting not thinking through his plan properly. Molly could do little to help him, after all she had to listen to what the professor was teaching instead of acting as Sherlock's handler all the time.

"Any questions?" asked Dr. Watson. Sherlock raised an arm in the air. The teacher looked a little surprised for a moment, because whenever he had to speak anything, he'd usually start speaking in the middle of the class without any regard. So, John silently prepared himself for anything that Sherlock was going to throw at him.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"Ah, yes," Sherlock straightened up in his chair, folding his arms over his chest, "Erm... how long are we going to have to listen to this nonsense?"

A few titters from the rest of the students and a kick under the table from Molly, which he avoided very easily. Her blows had become very predictable lately.

Dr. Watson sighed resignedly and turned towards the board, rubbing it clean, "I think you do have a watch, Mr. Holmes," he turned to look directly into his eyes and pointed at the device on his wrist, "That is, unless you're too dyslexic to be able to read the time."

The class burst into laughter. Most of the professors didn't bother to reply to Sherlock's contemptuous comments, and several others never managed to come up with a proper response. Sherlock simply quirked his eyebrow a little, preparing a cutting retort as he sucked in a breath, "My watch is digital, Dr. Watson, seeing as your bespectacled eyes cannot tell that. It's an analog watch that dyslexics have a hard time with. Plus dyslexics have difficulty telling time at a very early stage of their life, mostly when they are 7 to 9 year olds. And I'm too young to have Alzheimer's or any other kind of dementia, so there."

Students looked at Dr. Watson hopefully for the return blow as he chewed the insides of his cheek, his hands behind his back as he decided that it wasn't worth his time and effort to answer Sherlock. He rolled his eyes and went back to the assignment he was talking about, to everyone's dismay. Sherlock leaned back in his chair victoriously, while Molly looked shocked and amused in equal amounts.

Bell rang, signalling the end of the class. Students rushed out into the corridors as the class was dismissed, and Sherlock went over to Dr. Watson's desk to collect his cell phone back as Molly waited for him outside the class.

"Here's the phone," he tossed it to him as Sherlock approached him, who caught out of his reflex, "Do try and concentrate in my class, Mr. Holmes. It'll certainly do you no harm."

Instead of Sherlock leaving the classroom with a sulk as he had expected him to, he sat down on one of the desks, watching John sipping his coffee, "How would you feel if I taught you the table of 2 the whole day, professor?"

John smiled as he took his glasses off in front of Sherlock for the first time. His breath caught very briefly as he saw the deep blue in them, and then he frowned internally, wondering where the hell that had come from. He swallowed as John's smile spread very momentarily across his face before it became something resembling exasperated, "Not very excited, I should imagine."

Their eyes locked for a second before Sherlock looked away to read the text that had just arrived on his phone. Molly really had a thing with timing, "Well, then your imagination is very poor, _professor_!" He declared, looking up at him, "_Not very excited_ is the understatement of the century."

John put down his coffee on his desk, and smiled again, this time a little amused, "Understatement of the century? You do love to be dramatic, don't you Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock, please," said he, before he could stop himself. He couldn't remember the last time any teacher had given him such a genuine smile. He also didn't remember the last time he had asked a teacher to call him by his first name.

"Well then... Sherlock," said he, as he ran his fingers through his hair, a force of habit while wondering whether Sherlock was like this with everybody or just him, "You should... erm, go now, I guess. My next class arrives in five minutes and besides, I don't want you skipping classes," John craned his neck to look past him at Molly waiting outside the class. Sherlock turned in the direction of Dr. Watson's gaze just has Molly noticed both the men looking at her. She turned away at once, and Sherlock gave him an acknowledging 'hmm' before exiting the classroom, his thoughts drifting to those blue eyes on their own accord.

"It took time," said she softly, "did he tell you off too much?"

Sherlock simply shook his head, instead focussing his attention on the experiments he needed to perform and several new ways of dealing with Greg/Molly.

* * *

Three weeks later...

John wondered what the hell was happening to him.

Jeanette had texted him again for the fifth time, saying that she would like to meet him for coffee again sometime. John wanted to, for God's sake, he wanted them to work out even though he knew that it simply wasn't possible. The sex was good. It always was, but Jeanette was a compulsive cheater; sleeping around was a part of her, something John would never be able to reconcile with.

And now, Sherlock was another madness that had crept up.

John found himself oddly drawn to this weird teenager. He always allowed him to stay in his class during self-study seeing as he had no other place to go to. Despite what other professors claimed, Sherlock wasn't all that appalling after the class. The he remembered that he stayed by his free will. The other professors must have been talking about detention or something similar.

He found it hard to keep his eyes from travelling over to the last bench during a test just to see how he was faring. He wondered if Sherlock had realised that he was slowly upping the difficulty level of the last two questions especially for him, seeing as he always complained that tests were unimportant in the grand scheme of things and that they wasted his precious time. And also because John wanted to realise his full potential.

And whenever he read his test papers, John wondered what Sherlock was still doing in 2nd year.

John supposed that he did know. After all, one time during the test, Sherlock had actually caught him staring and had winked at him. Winked, as in thanked him for some decent questions, or so John thought as he turned away, slightly pink for no reason at all. When he turned back to snatch an involuntary glance, Sherlock's attention was fixed on his paper again, like nothing had happened.

And that girl. Who was she, the one who always sat with him, the mousey haired pretty girl? John couldn't help but wonder. He always found himself wondering whether she was his girlfriend or not. They seemed too close to be friends anyway. John had spotted them giggling together in the class many a time, leaning in and whispering in low voices to each other. She always waited for him after class, and John never found one without the other, except for Mondays, where Sherlock, knowing that Dr. Watson's class remained empty at that time, stayed in there, sitting in the front bench, and making a thousand questions swim restlessly inside John's head.

For every Monday during the three weeks, John had allowed him to stay in his class. They barely spoke, but the room felt like it was going to explode if they kept up the tension (at least that's what it felt like to John). So, the next Monday, after the anatomy class had ended, when Molly asked Sherlock whether he would want to go to the cafeteria or the grounds for studying, he declined, saying that he would rather study in Dr. Watson's empty classroom. She shrugged her shoulders, and left with an incoherent mumble about a book in the library as Sherlock went and settled in the front benches with a book on criminal psychology. Weird fellow, he was. He sat in the last bench during the class and in the front bench after the class was over. John stared at the cover of his book, wondering what exactly was going on in his mind...

"You have questions," Sherlock remarked, without even looking up, "So many and so loud that I can hear them and it's annoying," he raised his head, steepling his fingers together with elbows resting on the desk.

Dr. Watson gave an exaggerated sigh and decided to give in to his curiosity, "Why do you stay here, every Monday after my class ends?"

Sherlock frowned,and yet his face remained artfully blank, "It's self study hour. I thought you went through my schedule-"

"Yeah, I know," said he, taking off his glasses and pressing his fingers to his eyes, "what I meant was why here? You could go to the library for self study."

"I hate the library," he declared, his voice a growl, his lips curling with contempt, "It's full of idiots."

He nodded, going through several papers, "Going by your logic, if the library is full of idiots then the whole place must be filled with idiots."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, as if he had stated something that should've been very obvious, "Yes."

"Right," John noted the endearing rebelliousness in him, "What about the grounds?"

"No," he answered absentmindedly, flipping through the pages, "Football jocks, I might get hit by a rogue ball. Besides, it's hot out there."

"What about other free classrooms, you know... like mine?"

"Other professors kick me out whenever I try and enter," he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, making John grin at the mental image and sending an odd feeling down Sherlock's chest, "Cafeteria is noisy and the labs are never empty. This room is the best option, seeing as the ventilation is the best... and because... you let me sit here."

"So... you hate the grounds, the cafe and the library..." he muttered to himself, gulping water down his throat, feeling like he was harbouring a fugitive.

"I don't explicitly hate it, as in..." Sherlock decided to give in, after all, it was another of his achievements, "I'm banned from the library," he proclaimed, proud and annoyed all at once.

John choked on his water, sending jolts of alarm through a composed Sherlock as he tried to cover it up, dabbing his mouth and his front with a handkerchief, "Excuse me," he coughed violently and before Sherlock could comprehend, it had turned into laughter, "How can someone be banned from the library?!"

Sherlock looked oddly pleased. No one had found that particular feat funny, not even Molly, whose sense of humour came closest to his own. His eyes lit up, "You want to see?"

He frowned a little, his eyes growing wide at the strange offer, "No thanks, I'll erm... take your word for it."

Sherlock's expression dropped altogether as he studied him, "Right, okay."

A tense silence filled the space between them as they returned to their work. Sherlock kept glancing at him, as the latter kept his head bowed in his work resolutely, even though he had finished with it. Slowly and slowly, Sherlock's attention managed to stray from his book and settled wholly on the oblivious professor. Meanwhile, John remained immersed in his papers, not looking up for a moment to realise that Sherlock was staring at him. Finally, not able to contain it anymore, he blurted out the one question that had been bothering him the most, "Is she your girlfriend?"

It took Sherlock a little more than two seconds to figure out what exactly he was saying, "Sorry what?"

John just realised how inappropriate that question was. Sherlock was just a student. Professors don't ask their students about their girlfriends or boyfriends. But he was staring at him so intently, piercing him with his questioning gaze that he let it fall as he lowered his voice, cursing his stupidity.

"That girl," he nodded as he smiled to indicate that he wasn't prying, "who, erm... sits with you every day... is she your girlfriend?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look at him as if he was an E.T. but his expression softened gradually, "No, Molly is my friend. Best friend," he added, a little proud of himself. John noted the tone of his voice as he said 'best friend'.

"Yeah well," said John, just for the sake of saying something as he slowly ran out of words, "just wondering. Not that I... you know."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, fighting tooth and nail to hide a smirk, "I know what?"

John would have given anything up for the bell to just ring. He risked a glance at his watch. Another half-an-hour was remaining, "Nothing," he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and his head in his palms in exasperation, "are you always this annoying? Even in person, after the class?"

He rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair, "Do you always point out the obvious? No wonder you've got a Ph. D."

John didn't know how to answer that. Sherlock always beat him to the punch, "I think you're here to study, Sherlock. I suggest you do that."

"Well, you were the one who was bombarding me with your pathetic attempts at conversation, _professor_," said he in a low voice.

"Well, you're the one who started," John pointed out, "And anyway, I'm getting tired of this daily childish behaviour. Giving a shout of 'boring' in the class certainly isn't cool!"

Sherlock frowned, "Why would I want to look _cool?_ The content of your lectures ARE boring!"

John suppressed a sigh as he rose from his chair and sat down beside Sherlock, "Sherlock, your attitude... it isn't healthy at all for a student. You forget that many others come here to study as well, and your continuous disturbances make it impossible for others to study."

Sherlock sniggered, "Oh, come on! Even you're moderately clever enough not to believe that!"

John set his coffee in the table, and took his glasses off, staring at him for a few minutes, "Excuse me?"

"Please! Why else would you have coffee right after lunch? Because you try your best not to fall asleep during teaching, of course!"

John bit the insides of his cheek as he realised how half-right Sherlock was, "Intelligence and wit isn't all. You've got to have a proper attitude to get to the top, or else you'll fail..."

He stopped when he saw how close they were sitting, swallowing when he found that Holmes' fingers were mere inches away from his hand. Before he could give himself a mental shake, Sherlock spoke, a mischievous glint in his eye, his voice lower and deeper than it even had been, "You'd fail me?"

John backed away, shaking his head, heart thumping powerfully in his chest, words breathless, "No... I didn't mean that... I-"

"Well, go ahead then," said he, as he pierced him with his gaze, a smirk adorning his pink plush lips as John continued to stare at them, "I could fail, and then you'd have to give me extra backup lectures to improve my score, won't you, _professor_?"

The last word made John snap out of it. He was his professor, he already had a girlfriend, and he certainly wasn't gay, no matter however Sherlock had succeeded in almost seducing him. He nodded and stood up abruptly, causing alarm to shoot through Sherlock at the sudden change in his demeanour. He retreated back to his desk and stayed there for the rest of the time. He knew that Sherlock's eyes were on him, he could feel them. Finally the bell rang and he waited for Sherlock to leave. When he wasn't, he took initiative.

"I suggest you find yourself another classroom to study in, Mr. Holmes. And study hard," he tried not to look at the hurt expression in his eyes as he went to throw open the door for him. Sherlock stayed in his place motionless for some time. When it became clear that the professor wasn't going to reconsider, he swallowed the rejection and dumped his books into his bookbag, slung it over his shoulder and left.

John tried not to stare after him, ignoring the feeling in his chest as he wiped his sweaty palms with his handkerchief.


	4. Chapter 4

**I thought that maybe I jumped a little too fast into this... so this chapter is just a sort of backstory about how Sherlock realised that he had a crush on his professor**

* * *

John knew he had acted like a child.

He couldn't think of anything else that whole day as he walked back to the bus stop with Abbott. The latter tried to involve him in what was more like a one-sided conversation, telling him about how his day had been and how he hated his students (Everybody does, right?). Worst of all, he went on about Sherlock's tales and his scathing comments from all day.

John sometimes supposed that Sherlock had a brilliant career as a screenplay writer of some sorts, with that amount of witty punchlines in his mind.

He tried not to remember the hurt in his eyes as he left the class, the slouched shoulders of dejection. He was a young boy, John mused, and it wasn't his fault that he had mistaken his professor's "intellectual" interest in him for something else. It was extremely harsh and very mean to treat him like that.

Young boy. John was the one who had run away instead of making him understand that he really shouldn't be so cheeky with his professor. He was supposed to be the mature adult here, and yet he had stormed off when it had been time to act like one.

Back in the bus, he tried to think why Sherlock was doing whatever he was trying to do. Why he was being extra disrespectful in class. In one of the last tests, Sherlock had actually written 'NULL' over all the worksheet in the weekly test except for the last two questions, as if they were the only ones which mattered.

"Hey, professor," Jeanette greeted him with a quick kiss as he entered his flat. John cast his eyes over the whole place, his mouth slightly ajar. The sitting room was a complete, utter mess. She had taken the liberty to move in. John was starting to see where this was going. Why she had patched things up.

"What're you doing?" asked John, putting his bag down and then looking her up from head to toe. Her apron had chocolate stains all over it, "And stop calling me professor," said he. It reminded him of a certain someone way too much.

Jeanette pouted her lips. "I moved in, stupid!" said she, smacking his head lightly with the stirrer. John reeled backwards, disgusted as he felt egg yolk and butter stick to his hair, "You look so cute when you make that face."

John tried his best not to smile at that as he felt for his left shoulder, a little stiff from carrying the heavy bag around as he settled down on the couch, "You opening a chocolate factory anytime soon?"

Jeanette threw him a smirk as John smelled the delicious aroma of chocolate from the kitchen, "I might. For you. You remember that time, in Dublin?"

John did. He had gone for some sort of a convention thing and she was his plus-one. It was their third time, and he had fucked her all over the kitchen table, smearing her with chocolate. Somehow, something that had felt very erotic at that time only served to disgust him a little now. Jeanette came over to him, and settled between his legs, kissing him deeply, plying his mouth open... it did feel good. So good.

John tried to retract his mouth away, "Jeanette, not today please-"

But she kept kissing him, while her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt off, her fingers trailing against his chest. Not being able to resist, John pulled her towards him, kissing her back passionately as he threw away the apron. She worked her way to his neck, biting and kissing the sensitive skin there, while massaging his half-hard erection. John closed his eyes, leaning into her touch and moaning, "Oh, Go... Ugh... Sher... oh, god - lock..."

Jeanette stopped immediately, causing John to completely lose it, "What?" he asked breathlessly.

"What did you say?" she asked, her eyes squinting on him, refusing John's touch. John's half-shut mind frowned, not being able to understand what 'Sher... oh, god - lock' was. He sat there, staring vacantly into her eyes for a few moments. The room seemed small, stuffy, and way too crowded. Finally, he got up, muttering an unintelligible 'I'm sorry' to her, and dashed inside to his room, to smack his head so that he could at least get a grip on what was happening to him. Finally, not being able to clear his mind, he did the one thing that usually felt like salvation, making impossible papers for the third years, and imagining their sorry faces. He had been thinking about that lanky Holmes teen way too much, and John didn't want to admit, but it did get a little beyond the general description of "intellectual".

* * *

Three weeks ago...

"It took time," said Molly softly as Sherlock exited Dr. Watson's class, pocketing his phone, "did he tell you off too much?"

Sherlock merely shook his head as they parted ways. Sherlock went for Mathematics, a subject he didn't understand why people still studied given that some blessed man whose name he had deleted a long time ago had invented the calculator. Molly left for the Chemistry lab and Sherlock wished he could've got in with her, but the teacher knew him, and he really didn't fancy another row with a lesser mortal.

During the lecture, he didn't utter a single word. Many a times, the Mathematics professor's eyes kept travelling to him, wondering whether Holmes was storekeeping all the insults for the end of the class. But Holmes wasn't paying any attention, and that was the best thing that could happen to any professor.

When the Math class ended, Molly joined him for Organic Chemistry. Sherlock set down with the daunting task of assessing his behaviour from earlier. He took the last page of his notebook, and started scribbling down, like he was writing down the observations from an experiment. Molly looked a little pleased when she thought that Sherlock was studying. Halfway between the class, she peeped over to see what he was writing so importantly. She stared at the first few lines in disbelief as Sherlock managed to hide it from her.

"Sherlock, what're you writing? _Breathing disorder, rapid pulse, problems with concentration_... Sherlock, are you ill?" she squeaked worriedly, her fingers reaching out for his wrist, his pulse, "Is it that flu again? I'll have to tell Mrs. Hudson-"

"NO!" He blurted out, thinking about how Mrs. Hudson always insisted on calling Mycroft when he was ill, and then he cleared his throat, "No. I'm not ill, I've checked."

"Well then..." she withdrew his hand from on the top of the paper and had a look at the list he had made, "why're you writing this? _Racing heart, check. Rapid pulse, check. Sweaty palms, moderate. Breathing disorder, mild. Problems with concentration, infinitesimally small_... these are symptoms of fever, Sherlock."

He simply pulled his things away, "I thought you wanted to study."

"I do. But you should tell me if you're ill... although you don't look very ill."

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, "Go back to your books, Molly." He looked down at his completed list, and now all that was left to do was go online and search for a proper explanation.

* * *

When Sherlock reached his flat in Baker Street, he threw his bookbag in a corner, his shoes and his jumper in another, and settled down on the couch with the laptop on his thighs.

"Right then," he typed in 'symptoms racing heart shortness of breath sweaty palms'. And the results that returned were not satisfactory. He knew that he didn't have heart problems. He was too young for it, and there was no history of heart disease in his family. Tachycardia came closest to all the symptoms, but there wasn't any chest pain. All symptoms were pointing at a heart problem. But he was almost sure that he didn't have any. He called up Mummy to know about the history of heart disease in his family, and she fainted right when he uttered the words 'heart disease', so he thought that it probably wasn't a good idea. He thought about asking Mrs. Hudson, but she would simply go on about her hip, so he abandoned that idea. By 11 o'clock, when Sherlock saw that he wasn't getting any close to the answer, he called up the one person he would tell everything (most of the things... okay, maybe some of the things): Molly.

But she wasn't answering his texts. He even tried calling, although he hated calling anyone, but she wouldn't answer. At last, he gave up, and put the jumper back on, and set towards her flat. He didn't dare to drive, because if he did have a heart problem, he could have an unexpected heart failure right in the middle of the street. This was urgent, and why was she not returning his texts. She always returned his texts, no matter what.

* * *

In the dim light, Greg lay beside Molly, all wrapped up in her cozy blankets and in the peaceful aftermath of sex. Her parents had gone out, and her cat was sleeping outside. She snuggled in with him, and he inhaled the lavender scent of her brow in. She looked up at his face like an angel in human form as he stroked her cheeks, wiping the tear tracks off her face.

"You alright?" he asked. This was their first time, and Molly had never felt so heavenly, so... just good. There was no other word, no other way to describe it.

Before she could nod her head in agreement, the cat outside made a strange harsh, devilish noise, followed by a very human and painful grunt. Molly instantly snapped out of her reverie and straightened up, pulling his T-shirt on herself.

"Your parents?" Greg hissed, "I thought they weren't returning for a couple of days!"

"They aren't," she shushed him, "Must be a burglar-"

And before she could say anything further, the door opened with a click, revealing a very breathless Sherlock with scratch marks on his arms from the cat, "Molly, I've been... trying to call-"

He stopped as he took in the extremely embarrassing sight before him, as Molly covered herself further up with her skirt. She wanted to shout at him. Sherlock wouldn't even leave her alone during her first time. But she took a deep breath, "Sherlock, what're you doing here?" Behind her, Greg looked positively murderous. He now knew who to throw a punch to if he and Molly ever broke up.

Sherlock averted his eyes at once, and cleared his throat awkwardly, "You weren't returning my calls! You should've told me you were having sex with Graham-!"

"Greg," he corrected, but Sherlock paid no attention to him.

"Sherlock?!" Molly looked like she would've given up anything to punch him in the face, "No one ever tells their friends that they were having - you BROKE into my flat! Why did you break into my flat? You could've rung the doorbell!"

"You weren't answering your doorbell!" With that, he promptly turned around, and actually slammed the door behind him. Molly rolled her eyes, "Sherlock!" She called out.

"Yes?" he poked his head back into the room, happy that Molly had given in to him. But she was having none of it as she threw him an accusatory look, "Did you just slam my bedroom door?"

"No!"

"Close it properly, please. And wait for me in the sitting room."

He gritted his teeth grudgingly, but closed the door properly enough. Behind her, Greg heaved an all-suffering sigh, at which Molly only patted his shoulder, "I think you should go now."

"Brilliant! Simply brilliant! And now you're making me do the walk of shame, all for that dickhead!"

Molly's eyes narrowed, "Don't call him that!", her voice became shriller, but then she blinked it away and tried to put on a placating smile, "Can't you do even that for me, please?" said she, as she threw her arms around him and kissed him.

"Would you hurry up?!" came an arrogant, mood-breaking voice from the living room. Molly pulled away, "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Is he gonna come in every time?" he asked as she handed him his T-shirt.

"Don't worry. If you're good, I'll be sure to secure the fire-exit next time," said she, blushing at the thought of a next time. They dressed up, and Greg waved a sad goodbye to Molly as he went away. Before Sherlock could open his mouth to speak, Molly spoke, "Give me five minutes, will you? I need to shower."

"Molly," said he, knowing exactly how to deflect a shower, "I think I'm ill."

She looked at the bathroom longingly, and then sat down, defeated, "I'll make a deal."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "What?"

You let me have shower right now, and then I listen to you-"

"NO! Molly, you don't understand, it's URGENT-!"

"So is this. You let me take a shower now, and I'll listen to you. Or, you don't let me take a shower, and you'll have to do the next thing I ask you to do-"

"I won't feed your cats," said he at once. She burst into laughter, "No, I won't waste such a perfectly good opportunity just to feed my cats."

Sherlock thought intensely for five seconds and then nodded, I'll do the next thing you ask me to do, given its within my physical limits."

She sighed. She hadn't expected that answer. It must be serious, "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

He produced a precious slip of paper from his pocket, "My symptoms," On it was written every single symptom that he had observed during the day. She ran a weather eye over them, "Okay, looks like a heart problem. Do you... does your family have a history of heart ailments, Sherlock?"

"To my knowledge, no."

"Have you gone to a doctor?"

"No."

Molly frowned, "why not?"

"I came to you before. Then if you say that this is serious, then I might go to a doctor."

Molly blushed at that. It was certainly good to hear that Sherlock would come to her before he went to a doctor, "Since when have these problems started?"

"Today, in Professor Watson's class."

Molly looked at him as if he were an overgrown insect, "You were pretty... yourself in Professor Watson's class today. I didn't notice anything unusual."

"No," Sherlock crossed his legs, "it was when everyone left, and when I was talking to him."

Molly considered this for a moment, "Okay, so... it came just like that... all of a sudden?" She found it hard to believe.

"No, I was telling him something about the table of 2, and then he smiled at me..." Sherlock trailed off. The illness was very suspicious indeed. Creases appeared between Molly's eyebrows as she pondered over it, and then she went through the list again. Sweaty palms, breathing disorder, racing heart, it all made sense.

"Are you sure, Sherlock?" She asked him again, as if she couldn't believe it. She had known Sherlock since high school, and if anyone asked her whether Sherlock Holmes ever had a crush on someone, she'd say 'no' in a heartbeat. Poor soul, he was scientifically trying to determine whether he...

"Yes, of course," said he, irritated that Molly had even dared to question him on whether he was sure or not.

But Molly wasn't convinced, "Okay, it's not a heart problem, that's for sure... but-"

"But what?"

"Erm... I'll need more clues for this, okay? I have a hunch what this might be, but since that seems a little short of impossible, I-"

"Should've gone to a doctor," he murmured, annoyed that all that drama had left him where he had begun from, but Molly cuts in, "Wait! I didn't say I don't know this... it's just, this is highly improbable, okay? God! How am I gonna explain this to you?!"

Sherlock watched her frustrated actions suspiciously, "Molly," he started very matter-of-factly, "you know perfectly well that-"

"Yeah, I know, you're as clever as it gets but... okay, here we go," she took a deep breath. She never thought that she would be the one who would be having this talk with him, "I know you haven't but let me just ask again... Have you ever had a... " she dropped her voice as if he were committing blasphemy, "girlfriend?"

Sherlock threw her a dark scowl, "Girlfriend?"

"Or boyfriend?" she cleared her throat, seeing as this case was a little different.

Now he grew really suspicious, "Is this a not-so-subtle way of asking whether I'm gay or not, because I don't think that this bears any importance on-"

"No, it does," said she quickly, overriding him, "Okay, maybe not boyfriend but... you know, a crush or something?"

Sherlock's scowl became even darker, "A crush?"

"It's a person you like-"

"I know what a crush is, thank you very much," said he quickly.

"Good, so you... know what symptoms these are."

Sherlock simply shook his head unhelpfully.

"Right," she massaged her forehead and propped her head with her fingers, "Doesn't look like you've had one ever, but I think... I might be wrong... but I think you have a crush on..." It was very disconcerting, the oblivious manner in which Sherlock was staring at her. She sighed as he patiently waited for more information. Finally, she pulled a long breath and closed her eyes, "IthinkyouhaveacrushonProfessorWatson."

He cocked his head to his left, staring at her like a lost puppy, "Sorry what?"

She cleared her throat, feeling extremely uncomfortable, "I think... you have a crush on... Professor Watson."

He blinked rapidly several times but otherwise, he didn't move or react. Molly braced herself for any kind of verbal assault she might face from him. None came, surprisingly, as he continued staring sightlessly at her, his mouth slightly open.

"Sherlock?" she called his name softly, but to no avail. His legs were still crossed. Finally his short-circuited brain started to reboot, and his eyes narrowed. He promptly stood up, brushing the non-existent dust off his jumper, "I think I'll give myself a dose of cardiac glycosides. They should do it perfectly," and before Molly could say anything at all, he was out of her house, just as silently as he came.

She sighed to herself, looking at her injured cat. In one night she had managed to offend her boyfriend, her best friend, and get her cat injured; last one was Sherlock's fault anyway. She walked off towards the bathroom, hoping for a decent shower, picking up the phone on the way.

"Mr. Holmes? This is Molly, erm... Sherlock is convinced that he has a heart disease, and he was talking about a dose of cardiac glycosides... now, I don't think he's sure about the dosage..."

* * *

During the car ride next day, Sherlock wasn't speaking at all, or rather he was refusing to speak to her. Mycroft had waved them a perfectly sweet goodbye, the best way to start a day. Molly had to drive, and she couldn't bring Greg along, obviously.

In the class, Sherlock sat with his elbows bent, forearms dangling carelessly off of the front of the edge of his desk. Molly felt very guilty. As much as calling Mycroft had been her duty, she knew how much Sherlock despised his brother coming to him and threatening him to drag him away to his family home.

"Sherlock?" She tried for the millionth time. No answer.

"You okay?"

"No," came a bored answer. Molly cheered up almost instantly, "You... erm, did you manage to take those... glycosides-"

"I've been thinking about what you told me, Molly," said he, not caring to listen to what she said.

"About..."

"About me having a crush on Professor Watson-"

"Shhh!" She tried to shush him. He had said that in his normal volume, but to Molly, it sounded a 100 times louder. Sherlock frowned, "What?"

"Can you keep it down please? No one should hear about this."

Sherlock assessed the reasons why it should be kept a secret. He found none, "Why?"

"Because," Molly fished in her head to come out with a proper explanation. For Sherlock, everything was a thesis supported by the pillars of reason. He didn't understand that some things were just supposed to... be. He was just too clueless about the most basic of instincts such as keeping their crushes private and stuff like that, "... because, he's your professor, Sherlock..."

"So? Is it wrong to like your professor?"

Molly bit the inside of her cheek, "So you admit that you do like him?"

His eyes narrowed, "Well, evidence points to it-"

"No!" She prayed to any deity who would listen to her to drill some EQ-istic sense into Sherlock, "For once, Sherlock, stop thinking about evidence!" Molly vowed to wash her mouth with disinfectant as soon as she went home, because the description that she was going to give was the closest, "Do you feel... funny butterfly feelings in your stomach when you see him-?"

Yes, she was going to wash her mouth with disinfectant. She had never seen him more oblivious...

"Miss Hooper!" a voice called out her name. She straightened up in her chair almost instantly. The professor had seen them talking, "I suggest you move your things to the front bench here."

She risked a glance at Sherlock, hoping for an insult to come out of his mouth that would send the professor reeling back to the whiteboard. But he stared ahead, just as blank as he had looked like a few moments ago. She took a deep breath as she moved away from him. The insults never came when she needed them to.

* * *

The lunchtime was the best time to test his theories.

He watched Dr. Watson, who was sitting at a thankful distance from him, biting into a sandwich and laughing with his fellow professors. He looked nice when he laughed, no!, Sherlock told himself very strictly, he had to concentrate on figuring out whether he liked him or not.

Molly, meanwhile, wondered why she sat with a guy who could heartlessly abandon her anytime, "You're staring."

"Hmm?"

"You're staring at him, Sherlock. People will think something's wrong."

He cast his eyes around. Everyone was busy in their own group, "What people? No one's looking at us." She looked around too. She hated how he was always right.

Suddenly, Dr. Watson rose from his chair and appeared to be coming in their direction. Molly quickly turned away, but Sherlock didn't. Finally, he ended up near them, caught by Sherlock's persevering stare, "Good afternoon, Sherlock."

Molly tried not to splutter in disbelief. He called him 'Sherlock'? And he came over to talk to _him_?

"Afternoon then, professor," said he cheekily, giving no display of the sort of nervousness that people usually have upon talking with their first crushes, "And how many more lives and careers do you plan to sabotage today?"

Dr. Watson gave an amused chuckle, "By Monday, I might sabotage yours too."

"Well then, I look forward to it, sir."

Molly couldn't help but stare at him in disbelief. He was flirting with him?! And it was like she didn't even exist! Meanwhile, the professor frowned at his empty tray, "Non-existent appetite?"

Sherlock simply shrugged, "I'm okay for a while. Digestion just slows me down, but you're a connoisseur of human body. You know better, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," said Dr. Watson, "and although I'll pretend that that wasn't a subtle insult," Sherlock smirked at that, "You need to eat, Sherlock..." He turned to Molly, who had been staring at them since Dr. Watson came over to them, "You must be the girl who sits with him, aren't you?"

She tried not to narrow her eyes. He was 'Sherlock', and she was 'the girl', "Yes, sir."

"I just want to congratulate you, for being so sane around this one all the time. No, I'm not joking, I really do. If I were you, I'd have gone mental till now-"

There was a scrape of metal against floor, and Sherlock turned away from them like a wronged prima donna and threw a sulk. Molly giggled as Dr. Watson threw her a 'See what I mean?' look, "Well then, see you on Monday, I guess. I was just throwing this into the wastebin," he pointed at his empty tray. He walked away to his original destination, the wastebin, while Sherlock kept sulking for the entire lunch. Molly pondered on Dr. Watson's words. She really should be given an award for staying relatively sane around him for so long.

"I need more data..." he muttered to himself.

"Sherlock, you do realise that you were flirting with him, don't you?"

He turned to her, looking very confused and forgetting about his sulk period, "What do you mean? I wasn't flirting. I was just making conversation."

Molly's eyes narrowed, "Right. You don't "make" conversation with me."

"That's because you talk about cats."

"You were flirting, Sherlock," she giggled a little at the incredulity of the idea, in spite of having seen the proof in front of her eyes. She couldn't understand how he could flirt and still not realise it, "You're never like this with anybody else."

"I'm like this with you!" he protested vehemently. But she simply shook her head, feeling grateful about something that she knew more than Sherlock did. Bell rang, signalling the end of lunch, "Come on Sherlock, we gotta go."

* * *

Molly wept about why she even thought of hammering into Sherlock's head about liking his professor. He had become ten times worse during the Anatomy lectures and a million times rude, shoving insults in Dr. Watson's direction whenever he got an opportunity. She felt almost afraid to leave him alone in the class with the professor during those Mondays. But it was actually sweet seeing Sherlock's instincts taking over him as he desperately tried to attract Dr. Watson's attention. Those mini-fights in the class were all flimsy pretexts to talk to him.

And it was even loads funnier to see Sherlock pick-pocketing him, and when Dr. Watson would search for his whatever, be it wallet or some papers or other, Sherlock would magically appear, claiming that he had dropped them. And then look of happiness in his eyes that he desperately tried to mask with indifference and a roll of his eyes when Dr. Watson thanked him profusely was simply endearing.

But what worried her the most was the fact that she knew that this was going to go all wrong. He was his professor, and Sherlock was his student. She tried to warn him several times, dropping subtle hints, but Sherlock didn't seem to care. And even if they got together, and if the word got out, Sherlock could get expelled, and Dr. Watson could get sacked. More so, she had no idea whether Dr. Watson was gay or not. All she knew was that she couldn't see Sherlock heartbroken, not after seeing him so happy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Things cool between them once again, in Sherlock's own way, of course... and warm up a little as well.**

* * *

Present day:

"Well, it's karma I suppose," said Molly, sneakily inserting a sandwich between an absentminded Sherlock's fingers, in the hope that he would eat something, "I told you not to wind the librarian up, didn't I?"

They were seated in the cafeteria during the lunch the next day as Molly continued to feed him little bits of cucumber and mayonnaise sandwich as an experiment. Some people stared weirdly at the two of them. Most of them already pinned the two of them down as a steady couple, something which neither Sherlock nor Molly bothered to deny anymore, seeing that it was such a widespread notion.

There were no words to express how Sherlock had felt when Dr. Watson had asked him to find another place for studying. The overly exaggerated concept of 'being crushed' would be a proper start. He still hadn't told Molly about it. He knew that if he did, it would mean signing up for a subscription of a dozen boxes of tissue paper and cookies every week.

Apart from that, irritation had been the predominant emotion that Sherlock had felt. The entire campus was off limits now. The librarian won't allow him in, the auditorium and the cafeteria were always noisy. Not that Sherlock couldn't study in noisy environment, it was just he hated handling that much amount of stupidity. Grounds was off-limits too, after the incident that had happened to one of the freshmen who had got hit by a football right in the face, and Sherlock did not want a broken nose, thank you very much.

No other teacher would allow him because they feared what he could glean about their lives by just one look and they were very keen to avoid any rumours about themselves. Although Sherlock often enjoyed being thought of as someone who shouldn't be crossed, right now it wasn't working to his advantage.

"Wasn't my fault," said he brusquely, shoving the sandwich angrily into his mouth as Molly stared at him in amazement, "The collections of texts in the library IS subpar. I was only doing them a favour by pointing it out."

Something was wrong and Molly knew it. Her experiment on Sherlock with eating was in its last stage. Consciously or not, Sherlock hated food. On top of that, Sherlock hated cucumber, declaring it as an abomination for having no taste at all.

"Sherlock?" she called his name tentatively as he stared at a short blond man smiling away with his fellow professors. He made no indication that he had heard her, so she simply carried on in a soft voice, knowing that his ears were perked up, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Sherlock tore his eyes away from Dr. Watson to Molly. She always knew. How did she always know?

"No." He replied, trying to ignore the absurd, irrational heaviness in his chest. Somehow, Dr. Watson looked even better when he laughed than he did last week. And he would have to wait till Thursday to get into his class.

"Why do you suddenly want to go to library then?" she asked, pouring over a new book she had borrowed this morning. Sherlock had cast a look over the promising text and declared it the doom of forensic sciences. In return for his kindness, Molly, had not deigned to write notes for him in Mathematics, and Sherlock had been driven out of class. As he waited in the corridor, Dr. Watson had come through, and Sherlock had found himself wishing mentally to whoever cared to have a look inside his mind for Dr. Watson to remove his glasses.

But Dr. Watson had simply swept past him, regarding him as any ordinary student, no emotion betraying his face. Not that he saw his face; instead he had felt a strange mixture of pride and embarrassment at being made to stand outside class. His mind screamed to him to stop Dr. Watson and say the next thing that came up in his mind, but he found that he couldn't. Instead he simply looked down at his sneakers, waiting for the professor to pass through and then letting his gaze linger on his retreating figure.

"I need books," he replied absentmindedly, but Molly translated it easily, "I mean, what happened with Dr. Watson? Did he... erm, I mean..."

"I know what you mean, Molly," he snapped venomously, causing her to recoil into her chair, a little scared, "He turned me out of his class."

Without another word, he walked out of there, leaving behind a bemused Molly and a half-eaten sandwich. She tried to recall the last time Sherlock had snapped at her. Never. Sherlock was much more polite and courteous with girls, and particularly with her. Something was definitely wrong. She watched his retreating figure, and then shoved the books into her bag, and the sandwich into her mouth, following his direction.

* * *

She skipped the next class with him, sitting in a deserted corner of the university. She still hadn't managed to get to him. She tried one last experiment on him to accurately judge his mental health.

"I'm sad, Sherlock," said she, leaning against his arm, "Tell me a story."

He huffed, and looked away. Mycroft had taught her this because Sherlock always replied to this, and the stories she got were an accurate representation, "Once there was a very stupid Geoffrey Lestrade."

She withdrew instantly, frowning at him, wanting to tell him that it was Gregory and that he was _her_ boyfriend, but before she could say anything he started off again, "He was so stupid that everyone died. End of story."

Molly stared at him for some moments. This was extreme, "What?!" He had managed to remember 'Lestrade'. This was really extreme. To the point where she knew that her words weren't going to make any difference to him, "Get up."

Sherlock looked at her, "What?"

"We're going to Dr. Watson's class."

He looked almost panicky, and her resolute became even stronger, "Since you're not telling me, we might as well go to him and get it all sorted out."

But Sherlock simply grabbed her wrist a little too forcefully and made her sit down again, "Look, I thought... I thought he liked me too, but I guess I was wrong... can happen," he looked down at his sneakers shamefully, twiddling his thumbs, "Love is not really my area of expertise, and I'm just a novice to all this... liking stuff."

Molly winced at how sad he looked, and Sherlock noticed that, half-hoping that she didn't come up with her own story about her cat(s). But she simply attempted a sincere placating smile, "Tell me what happened."

* * *

Thursday had been unbearable.

During the whole class, Sherlock had kept his mouth resolutely shut. Molly said nothing for the first time, as if she had decided that she had no idea how to help Sherlock in such a situation.

Sherlock wondered why he had succumbed to the newfound emotions that the rejection had caused within him and why he had told it all to Molly. She had looked livid when he had told her about what had happened. And Sherlock had no idea that she knew half the curses that she spat in Dr. Watson's name. There were sometimes when Sherlock looked almost surprised at her unexpected belligerence.

The next day was a Friday. Sherlock and Molly were in a Chemistry class. As usual, Sherlock was not studying and Molly, revelling in her newly discovered bamfness, had again refused to write notes on his behalf. Any time the professor would come over and ask him to get out of the class. Sherlock would refuse, and then the professor would threaten him with the Dean, who always informed Mycroft about everything. Sherlock would heave an exaggerated sign and drag his feet outside, while Molly would look apologetic and lonely. Even getting told off was becoming boring and repetitive for him.

But he hadn't expected the Dean to come walking around. Sherlock bowed his head even lower, preparing himself for a lovely stay at his parents' home for two weeks.

"Well, well, well," said he, smiling from one end to the other of his face, "If it isn't our favourite Mr. Holmes. Couldn't resist the sunshine outside, could you?"

"At least I don't go about wearing SPF 40 sunscreen lotion for women even indoors," said he through gritted teeth.

The Dean blanched for a second, and then resumed smiling, "I shall have a good and long talk with your brother, and I'll be happy to pass any compliments."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, "Then kindly ask him how his diet is."

And before the Dean could say anything at all, there was a voice in the corridor, "Oh, there you are, Mr. Holmes! I was wondering where you had gone off to."

Sherlock and the Dean spun around to see Dr. Watson hurtling towards them, an amiable smile on his face, "Oh hello there, Mr Hope," he reached them as Sherlock continued to watch his professor, his heart speeding up for no reason at all. Or maybe some very obvious reason that he failed to rationalise. Their eyes locked for a second as Dr. Watson urged him with to improvise some sort of fabrication. Sherlock seemed to be at a loss of words, but he managed something somehow.

"Yes, erm... professor, I was just... chatting up Mr. Hope here," he flashed a maniacal smile at the Dean, who retreated away from him, "What do you mean? Holmes was standing here all the time, bunking classes again..."

"No he wasn't!" said Dr. Watson, laughing incredulously, as if he didn't believe him, "He was with me the whole time. It's his self study period."

The Dean looked at him skeptically, "Don't be ridiculous, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes-"

"Has self-study now," said he, digging into his bag and producing Sherlock's fake schedule, "See. You had dropped this in my class, forgot to tell you... sorry. In fact I was just whisking him away to the library, but he was resisting, saying something about... erm..."

Sherlock looked at him in disbelief as Dr. Watson pleaded him with his eyes to help him out. He had still kept his schedule. More than that, he was saving him from two weeks at his parents' house, from his parents' line dancing and Mycroft's torture. He too peeped at it. It was self-study indeed. He couldn't help but beam at Dr. Watson. He wondered what this man was doing as a professor in a university that Sherlock cared to attend because it was closest to his flat.

"About the librarian banning me from there," Sherlock supplied helpfully. The Dean looked at them suspiciously, but Sherlock decided that it was time for him to leave, "Of course, I was just chatting up Mr. Hope here about his sunscreen lo..."

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Holmes. I'll leave you in Dr. Watson's charge now." With that, he promptly turned around and left, leaving Sherlock with Dr. Watson. Alone. With Dr. Watson watching him, and with Sherlock feeling unprecedentedly uncomfortable. At last, he managed to speak, "You don't have to thank me."

"I wasn't going to."

Dr. Watson smiled, "I know."

"Good for you."

Sherlock waited, but Dr. Watson wasn't going anywhere. He stood there, as if words were on the tip of his lips about the awkward issue that he had to address Sherlock about. He stole a glance at his lips, and then looked back into his eyes. Maybe there was another way to make up for it.

"Erm... is it," he started as Sherlock jerked up, or rather pretended to, "Is it too late to take the offer?"

Sherlock frowned, "What offer?"

* * *

"How're we gonna do it?" John asked him as they remained hidden near the doors, out of everyone's sight, wondering what he had gotten himself into, but far from regretting it. Then he remembered, even he used to do stuff like this when he was in university, if not with a teacher. He suspected that Sherlock's girlfriend (he still called her his girlfriend even though he now knew that that wasn't the case) was the only person who kept his company in the school, and so Sherlock obviously took shine to a person who was friendly to him.

"You go ask for the book," he whispered, "I'll storm in a few seconds later."

They were near the oak doors of the library. John had asked Sherlock about why he had been banned from there, and Sherlock had offered him a helpful visual experience, in exchange for a book he needed from the library in a section which only teachers had access to.

John smiled at him, and walked in like any professor would, asking for the book and chatting up the lonely librarian cheerfully, as if a tornado wasn't going to hit it any second.

"Oh, you love dogs too? I love dogs too... excuse me, Dr. Watson."

John frowned at the sudden change in her expression from amicable to downright murderous. He didn't want to admit, but he secretly enjoyed trouble. It made him feel like he was in university again. Like he was 20 again.

The librarian rose from her chair and strode over to Sherlock, "Mr. Holmes you've been banned-"

But Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, "Relax," said he blandly, "I just need a book. You don't have to get all melodramatic, alright?" He stole a glance at John, who was watching the scene with rapt attention, and with a small smile on his lips.

The look on the librarian's face was simply priceless, "Well then, make it fast. I don't like my time wasted."

"Please! You need to do something worthwhile to feel your time being wasted," said he, looking down at her condescendingly, "And flirting with any professor who comes through that door doesn't count, obviously."

"Mr Holmes, you get out of here this instant!" she was on the verge of shrieking, but Sherlock continued on, picking up a science magazine like it was trash. There were only two other students, and they were staring to search for the distraction, and sniggering at the sight of Holmes and the librarian having a row. Clever bastard, John thought. Sherlock knew just when there would be minimum spectators in the library.

"And what the hell is this?!" He continued over her in a louder voice, "Look at that, Miss... or rather Grandma Librarian!" He launched into a savage quick fire of insults, "Such cheap, outdated, newsprint quality paperback, substandard contraband! You fail to recognise superior intellect, squashing it like a bug when it appears in front of them. For example, look at this," he drew out a large volume on British law, much to the librarian's annoyance as those two students abandoned their books and turned to what Holmes had to say, "Page number 354, paragraph 2, line 3, look at that! The _Magna Carta_ isn't included in the special class of Constitutional Statutes. And this one," he pulled down a very old edition of Boyd's Organic Chemistry treatise, and turned to the page he was looking for at once, "Look at that date! 1982! What is this, the grunge rock era? Is the library going to turn into a World War 2 artefacts museum anytime soon?" said he, brandishing his index finger at the textbook, "This reaction mechanism is no longer supported by the molecular orbital theory, and you still have this in your library-!"

"MR HOLMES!" John almost covered his ears at the yell, and continued to watch Sherlock fighting with the librarian. It was adorable, seeing him like this, fighting over books like a child fights over his action figures. He couldn't help but smile at him, in spite of the horrible insults Sherlock threw in her direction. She did deserve one, he thought, for turning Sherlock away from the one place where he could have unlimited access to his beloved, and outdated, books.

John's smile disappeared as he remembered how he himself had turned him out of his class. He tried not to remember the way he had felt the previous day, the sure feeling of Sherlock's eyes drilling into him from the last bench, the scream of the silence that John wasn't accustomed to, only to turn around and to see him pouring over three books simultaneously. He hadn't had the heart to snatch away his mobile phone, although he would've liked very much to give Sherlock a detention, so that he could've...

"Shit!" was the word that escaped from between his teeth. Things were getting pretty intense with the librarian, and she looked liked she was just about to choke him to death, "All right, that's enough, Mrs. Parkinson. Mr. Holmes, you come with me this instant! We'll go straight to the Dean, and I'll have your parents informed about it!" John would've dragged him away by the collar of his jacket to make it more melodramatic, but instead he allowed Sherlock to walk behind him like a gaolbird.

The librarian could've sworn that they had seen the teacher and the student laughing heartily as they exited.

* * *

Sherlock and Dr. Watson crouched near the stairs, laughing at something that nobody else would have found funny, "Oh Lord! That felt so good!"

"Jesus!" Dr. Watson exclaimed, laughing heartily as he led Sherlock into a corridor that he hadn't yet noticed that led straight to the Dean's office, "You're such a troublemaker."

He giggled like a child, "She's the only one I like arguing with. Always gets so moved by what I say."

Sherlock had never felt happier in his whole life. Embarrassing people was his favourite pastime, and after keeping silent in front of Dr. Watson the whole class the previous day, shouting his heart out at the annoying librarian really "let all that steam off". But seeing Dr. Watson smile over it, and actually laugh with him was a completely different feeling. He resisted glancing at his lips. He had made that mistake once, he had been too direct, and he wasn't going to repeat it. But that did nothing to ease the restlessness within him, hammering through his heart as if it were a powerful engine in a frail building that was waiting to fall apart. He was used to his brain functioning like that, even though he wasn't exactly a big fan of it. But this feeling, it was confusing and welcoming in equal parts. It was like someone had lit a candle; one that burnt brightly inside him. All he felt was that something inside his chest that soared till the highest point of the sky and then dropped down all of a sudden into the deep maws of the ocean. It felt better than adrenaline, and it made sure that he had a smile on his face. He couldn't even manage to chide himself for indulging in such fanciful thinking.

And then, Sherlock's eyes snapped up, and he realised that John was leading him to the Dean's office, "Why're we here?" said he, trying to mask the panic with curiosity, but John wasn't fooled easily.

"I'm accompanying you over to Mr. Hope's office," said he nonchalantly, and Sherlock frowned in confusion, all his thoughts forgotten, "For what?!"

"You've been a very troublesome student Mr. Holmes," said he, imitating the mocking tones of the Dean, "and I'm going to make sure that you get the punishment you deserve."

And that warm feeling was crushed at once. He wondered why Dr. Watson was doing this, making him feel good and then letting go of him, "No."

He started running away, but Dr. Watson was quick enough to grab his wrist, "Relax, Sherlock," said he, mischief twinkling in his eyes, "I'm only messing with you... sometimes even older people make jokes, you know?"

But Sherlock's eyes were glued to the grip that Dr. Watson had on his wrist. The latter retracted his hand back as if he had been burnt, and swallowed uncomfortably, heat rising in his cheeks. How Sherlock managed to do that to him, it was still a mystery, because he certainly wasn't gay. He had more than ten girlfriends to account for that.

"Sorry-ahem-for that," he cleared his throat, "I-"

"Dr. Watson? And Mr. Holmes? What excuse do you have for yourself now?"

Startled, both of them looked around for the source of the voice. The Dean was standing there, arms crossed over his chest, and an expression of triumph for having caught Sherlock outside the class again. But Sherlock looked at that man with such single-minded and intense loathing at having interrupted the precious moment that Mr. Hope recoiled a bit, looking browbeaten.

"Washed off your sunscreen now, have you?" he sneered, while John tried to regain whatever dignity was left of him, "And what is that on your neck, _sir_? Getting a little lucky with Miss Rai, are we?"

Mr. Hope flushed crimson at that, and John stopped himself from giggling at the shade of his face, "Mr. Holmes, you will-!"

But Sherlock simply made a face at him, "You aren't going to throw me out of here, you know it. I'm the best you've got-"

"I was just ensuring that Mr. Holmes got to his class without running away!" John interrupted, seeing that his next class was about to begin in a couple of minutes, "We were going for, erm..."

"Chemistry lab," Sherlock supplied helpfully, "Gotta go, sir. Do give Miss Rai my deepest condolences."

And before Mr. Hope could say anything, Sherlock and Dr. Watson had turned around and started down the stairs. It took him some time to recall that the Chemistry lab was upstairs.

Bell rang, and before students started to pour out of the classrooms, Dr. Watson handed him the book he had needed from the library, "A small thank you wouldn't go amiss."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, returning to his former condescending self, "What for? You drove me out of your class, and then you gave me a book as sorry. We're even."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Sherlock saw Molly at a distance, just as Dr. Watson started with a lot of hand gestures to help him wade through the awkwardness, "Look, for that, I'm... I guess I'm sorry, but you really shouldn't say such - what I mean is, I don't really have a problem, erm... you know..."

And at that moment, it was a fight between the choice to sit in Dr. Watson's presence in his classroom, and his high-and-mighty self-pride, which had also been hurt in the process of the rejection, and which hadn't recovered yet. And before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "No thank you for your _kind_ offer. Molly and I have found a place for studying."

"I wasn't offering," Dr. Watson said indignantly, "I'm just saying, it's all fine."

Sherlock studied him for a beat with a smirk on his face, "Right," and John looked up at him challengingly, "Right."

The smirk grew, "I thought you had a class."

"I do. I'll be seeing you on Monday, I mean..."

"Looking forward to it, _sir_."

John threw him a 'screw-you' look, and rushed out of there, pushing through the various students, as Sherlock continued to watch his retreating figure, while running his fingers over his wrist, where he had gripped him so tightly as Molly approached him, "What did he say?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, and assumed a serious expression, "Come on, Molly. Or else, we'll be late for our next class."

Molly looked at him disbelievingly, "_You're_ afraid of being late?! What's gotten into you?"

But Sherlock simply ran his fingers gently over the region of skin where Dr. Watson had touched him. It fell numb, and yet it felt buzzing with an unnamed something. He added another symptom to his incomplete list.

_Sensitivity to touch... considerate._


	6. Chapter 6

**I typed this in the middle of the night as the shortest chapter of my entire fanfiction career (that sounds so glorious, and which is not even three months :P). Typos have got to be there. Please point them out! :)**

* * *

When John had seen Sherlock that day with the Dean, he had planned to simply save him from him, lead him to his class and launch into a well practised speech that he had prepared the night (in writing actually) when he had locked himself in his room and seen for himself how his intellectual interest in the boy was morphing into something else, something that was dangerous for his career and completely undesirable for the young student. He had just become a professor, not even six months. He really needed to maintain a proper distance from his students.

But he had ended up making things worse. That smug smirk on Sherlock's face had wiped all thoughts away from his head. Instead, he had ended up assisting Sherlock in verbally assaulting the poor librarian, and then lied for him in front of the Dean. Twice. His attitude with Sherlock had been completely 'un-teacher-like' and unprofessional. Teachers don't play truant on the Dean with their students, but Sherlock that effect on him... no, not Sherlock, he was Holmes, not Sherlock. That was the first step to maintaining a proper, conventional student-teacher relationship. He wasn't going to call him Sherlock, even though the other desired him to call him so. He was going to make sure that he treated him like he would treat any other student. He was going to ignore the disappointment that he felt when Sherlock refused to sit in his classroom during the self-study, and instead he was going to stick with the infinitesimally small relief that he had felt. And, he was going to ignore the little voice in his head which kept on urging him to give Holmes a detention...

* * *

Sherlock was buried deep in his textbooks when Dr. Watson arrived in the classroom the next Monday, and started teaching them something about the neuroanatomy of the human body. He was surprised to see how well the professor could deny his presence, and he smelled a challenge there. There was absolutely nothing which could keep a person from not noticing his presence. Till then, Dr. Watson had caught two girls chatting and making hearts over their i's, and he had separated them. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his chest, yawning widely and exclaiming loudly, "Boring!"

Even though most of the students were now used to Boring!Sherlock, they still turned around at the distraction. Sherlock gave an all-suffering sigh as Dr. Watson turned around, "Mr. Holmes. Got anything to add?"

"Yes... this lecture is... as... boring AS THE LAST ONE!" He hissed angrily at him, as Dr. Watson continued to smile a deadpan smile. Molly looked confused, as if wondering why Sherlock was treating his crush like this, so disrespectfully.

"You know, Mr. Holmes... why don't you come and teach over here while I sit there and listen to your odyssey?!"

"Oh, I surely would, _professor_," John cringed at the way he said 'professor', "but I'm not paid to do that, am I?"

John sighed inwardly. Holmes was one of those kids that he did not know what to do with. He really wanted to throw him out of the class, because he was just making it so much harder for him. But, given the latent talent in the boy, John also wanted him to rise to greatness, and just forget about a commonplace professor. The boy could be a lot of things, a scientist, a philosopher. He had the full world out in front of him to conquer and set underneath his feet, and he was just throwing it all away. He had to make a last desperate attempt to instruct him in the matters of discipline. He couldn't bear to see such a bright student go to waste.

"Mr. Holmes, I've had enough of your daily, childish behaviour!" he lashed out at him, "As a punishment, you'll be submitting an extra essay on synapses and the mechanism of chemical message transfer across them, by Thursday," after some contemplation, he added, "Meet me after class."

The rest of the students gave out an "Ooh!" like they always did when someone was asked to stay behind. Professors never asked Sherlock to stay behind, and this was certainly an absurdity.

John could've sworn that he saw a triumphant smirk flicker over Sherlock's features before they turned bored to death again. Molly looked at the two of them knowingly, and returned to her meticulous notes.

After some time, bell rang, and Sherlock leaned against his desk as the room emptied, waiting until the last person had gone and they were only ones left. Molly threw him a 'caution' look before walking out of the class with her girlfriends, chatting away about their Organic Chemistry project and how she had decided to do it with Sherlock.

Sherlock slowly pulled himself off his desk and strutted across to Dr. Watson, as the professor sat down at a cautious distance from him, "I'm getting tired of your continual disturbances, Mr. Holmes," said he, pulling his glasses off and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "You're being incredibly disrespectful, not just to me but also towards your fellow students who are here to learn. Think about the friend who sits with you... I could teach them a lot if you decided not to interrupt in between. There's only so many classes I can have with you people. There's only so many times I can tell you-"

Dr. Watson stopped as Sherlock yawned loudly, cracking his knuckles, "Spare me that lecture, professor. If I remember correctly, I have to be somewhere else-"

"No, Mr. Holmes. You _have_ to listen to me. You are a good student, and you're just making yourself look silly in front of all these people-"

"You think I'm silly?" he threw him an accusatory look.

Dr. Watson sighed and squinted at him. Holmes was still slumped in his chair, arms folded, petulant rebellion written plainly on his face.

"Look, I'm not going to inflate your already swollen head by saying you're a brilliant student... but, think once. You could be so much. You could go and get a Ph. D, become a scientist, and what not," said he, his gaze travelling up and down him and lingering on the thin strip of skin visible between jeans and shirt for a moment. Sherlock caught that glance and gave him a sarcastic laugh as he sat down, "God, you're so blind, I wonder how you became an authority on human body with that perilous eyesight! Did that day's incident not say anything to you about what I am?"

He scowled at him. He knew which 'day' he was talking about, "What?"

"You really think I'd settle for the sedentary life of a scientist?"

"I'm settling for the life of a professor!" Dr. Watson countered back, and then bit his tongue. He hadn't meant for that to come out. Sherlock's eyes widened, but fortunately he decided not to pry. He watched Holmes' lithe figure draped on that chair, and remembered the excitement in his eyes the time when he had called him a 'troublemaker'. His voice became gentler as he didn't bother to call him Mr. Holmes anymore, "Sherlock, if you don't want to be here-"

"I didn't say that," said he quickly, "And I don't know what sort of repressed issues you have-"

"I don't have repressed issues!" said he, a little too passionately, "Imagine I said that without shouting, and don't you dare make this about me."

But Sherlock had nothing except for a smirk on his face, "I'm trying to imagine that, but anyway, you should know...erm," Sherlock somehow felt that he should say something that closely resembled what Dr. Watson's scenario was, and yet without expressing it too directly, "The thing is, there... erm, can always be a... cat, which can purr a lot when, erm... no one looks at it. Then one day, if you go... and kick it, it'll stop purring... and it'll die."

Dr. Watson stared at him, trying to process the little narrative that sounded like utter bollocks to him, "What's that supposed to mean?!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, "I think you should keep that as a little riddle for yourself, if the meaning isn't transparent to you at all. Anyway, I... erm... wanted to ask you... something."

"Yeah?"

"Will you go out with me?" he asked as if he was asking a salesperson about the price of an object. Dr. Watson knew he had heard wrong, or at least hoped he had misheard him. His eyes widened, "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock frowned. That was definitely not the reaction he had expected, not at least according to his research. He hated repeating, but Dr. Watson's answer was important to him, "Will you be my boyfriend?"

Dr. Watson looked away and sighed, "I'm not here to joke, Mr. Holmes. I've asked you to wait here after the class so I can at least make you understand about the gravity of your-"

"I'm not joking," said Sherlock, looking a little hurt, and he mentally slapped himself for that, "I'm dead serious."

"Sherlock," he looked miserable, as he tried to keep his voice even while the blood pumped in his ears painfully, "why don't you understand, despite having that amount of all-knowing grey-matter? You need to study and plan your career, instead of wasting your time after a man more than ten years older than you-!"

"So your answer's yes?" he asked him hopefully, "but you don't want to be labelled as a paedophile."

Dr. Watson sighed, "Mr. Holmes, you're my student, and I'm your professor, and it's as complicated as it can get. Let's just keep it to that. Don't make this any harder on me."

"Would you have gone out with me?" he asked, his head tilted to his right, observing his professor curiously, as if he were a lab specimen and as if he were ready to jot down some notes on his behaviour.

"I'm sorry?"

"If I wasn't your student, and if you weren't my professor, would you have gone out with me?"

John instantly shook his head in rejection, a little too quickly, "No, Mr. Holmes. Besides, the question is hypothetical and I'm not gay."

Sherlock straightened up in his chair, and looked into his eyes. John stared back, iron-willed, trying his best to control the size of his pupils and failing miserably at the impossible task. Sherlock withdrew back, "Do you necessarily have to be gay to be with a man?"

"What are you saying?" John shook his head in disbelief, but Sherlock simply stood up, looking very satisfied with himself, "Another riddle for you, _professor_. Good afternoon to you."

With that, he promptly strode out of there before the bell even rang. John didn't take another breath until Sherlock had had shut the door rudely after him. He simply wondered why he couldn't tell Sherlock about the fact that he already had a girlfriend.


	7. Chapter 7

**Quick update. My parents are back, and now I'll have to post shorter chapters because I can't stay on my laptop for more than three hours now. I know it's sad.**

**And by the way, I had no idea what the average salary for a typical professor was. I just had to google it out, and it said 70K. Since John is just starting... it'd be a little less of course, but then he won the professorship on the power of his research papers, so maybe not as less as 55-60K...**

* * *

Sherlock claimed that he understood. He knew why Dr. Watson had said no. It was not lack of attraction, it was because the man was as ethical as the Pope, and because he was a little concerned about his career, and too concerned about Sherlock's future. He could see the proof for himself, as he sat in his flat, surrounded by notes and post-its regarding his Organic Chemistry project. According to logic, Dr. Watson must be interested in him. And yet, there was that tiny nagging sensation in the back of his head, the one that made him feel like that he was making it all up, that he was imagining it, mistaking the teacher's attentions for something else.

_The question is hypothetical and I'm not gay._

Nice way to avoid answering. Hypothetical question.

_I'm settling for the life of a professor!_

Sherlock suddenly found himself wondering what Dr. Watson had wanted to be when he was a kid. He looked like he was very content to be a teacher, given how serious he was about his pathetic job at the university.

"You did what?!" Molly looked dumbfounded when Sherlock simply told her about what he had done. She seemed appalled at his daring, "Sherlock, do you have any idea of what you have done? He's your professor!"

"Thank you for pointing out the knowledge that you, I, a hundred other students and surely my dear brother knows about."

"So, you just went and _asked him out_?! Who does that?"

They were meeting at Sherlock's flat to work their chemistry project out. Sherlock had an idea, but he wondered if it would be legal. At any rate, he had not yet discussed it with Molly, and he wasn't sure if she would approve.

"And there's ninety percent chance that he is straight. And he must be almost 30-"

"Twenty eight years, seven months and nine days," Sherlock interrupted, and Molly let out an exaggerated sigh.

"I'm going to pretend that you didn't hack into the university records to find that out."

"Not just pretend," Sherlock said brightly, showing her his laptop, "Want to see?"

"Sherlock, be serious about this. You're endangering his career. If not yourself, think about him."

"You think I don't know?" Sherlock stood up suddenly and approached her, "You think _I_ haven't thought it through. Me?"

Molly backed away, a little spooked. There were sometimes when Sherlock could be truly scary, and this was one of them, as he towered over her, his face still tender and full of thoughts while his body language assertive and dominant. He messed his hair up, while adjusting them such that they didn't even graze the nape of his neck. His hair was getting longer again, and the only reason he wanted to keep it that way was because it annoyed a certain fat git who was upset over his receding hairline.

"Does everything have to be about someone's sexuality in here? He's straight, big deal! So what? Can't he just like me for who I am?"

Molly shook her head. She couldn't believe that they were arguing about this, despite how insanely sensible Sherlock's words were, "Even if that were the case, Sherlock, you insult him regularly in the class. What makes you think... look, I'm just concerned about you. I don't want to see you get hurt, okay?"

Sherlock wanted to respond with a cutting retort, but upon seeing the dark circles beneath her eyes and how tired she looked, he settled down in his armchair, and started jotting down all that he was going to need, while Molly poured over her textbook, an uncomfortable silence hanging over them.

* * *

A few miles away, John was just finishing up with checking all the papers. He opened up his emails, browsing through them to read them up, especially one that was offering him professorship in some other university for 63.8K per year. He leaned back on the couch, and took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose and forced himself down to contemplation for some time before Jeanette arrived from work.

He was still grappling to come in terms with reality. He still couldn't believe his nerve. Holmes had actually asked him out. He marvelled at his guts, as he found his blood pressure skyrocketing at the thought. All he could do was thank God for enabling his mouth to refuse him politely.

But it was hard to just sit back and try and push him out of his thoughts, away from his mind. By God, it was hard to forget his face, and the questions that he had laid down in front of him, two very daunting questions. He knew he wasn't gay. He had never felt attracted to men. Never. Ever. Holmes was an exception, but then he had to be, hadn't he? John had never met anyone like him, so... different, refreshingly different and exciting, a complete departure from his otherwise mundane, boring life. What Holmes was now was what John, in many ways, used to be when he was in college, before his mum and dad had taken away his enlistment forms, and his dream to go and serve in the army. A Ph. D was way better, they had decided. By twenty-six, one would get out of university with a degree and then by twenty-eight, he would start as a professor in some university, undertake some research work, and make his way up. The stable, sedentary life (as Holmes had put it) behind a desk, nose buried in papers and eyes hidden behind glasses. Well, he didn't fucking want that.

He replayed his conversation with Holmes back in his mind, and let out a hollow chuckle when he realised that he had used the exact same words with him, the exact same words which his parents had used to explain to him that the army wasn't a sensible decision. He hadn't managed to struggle out of it, but Holmes was stronger, stronger than he was at least. He had forgotten to be like that for some time. He had forgotten how to be in control. Had he been in control, Holmes would never even have dared to look up towards him for a second time, and now it was all just getting out of his hand. It just wasn't right. To fall for a student, and that too male, and that too during his first year of professorship itself was bad. He felt confused, about what he was, whether he even knew himself in the course of all that, feeling like a complete stranger to himself.

_If I wasn't your student, and if you weren't my professor, would you have gone out with me?_

Would he have?

John put his glasses back on and returned to another stack of test papers he had left for marking, but since he had nothing productive to do, he decided to finish with them. Halfway through, he came across a legible, spidery scrawl with the name Holmes, W on it. John looked away, not believing himself. His heart had started to beat faster just upon seeing his name as he ran his fingers over his paper, closing his eyes, imagining Holmes' hands moving across it, looking annoyed at having set such an easy and useless paper and glaring daggers at his professor for wasting his precious time, John remembered with a smile on his face. It was all he allowed himself to have of him. He swallowed at the imaginary feeling, and removed his hand, clasping it with his right hand to return to reality, to break that illusion.

The phone sitting on the table beside him rang loudly, startling him from his reverie. He glanced at the number, it was unknown. After a few minutes, he decided to take the call, "Hello?"

"Hey, professor," came a drawl from the other side. John's heart leapt up several non-existent metres in his chest when he heard that voice, "Sher-Holmes?"

He heard an exaggerated sigh on the other side of the phone, "Stick with one, _professor_. Either Holmes, or Sherlock, although I'd prefer the latter."

John smiled to himself, and all that he had made his mind up about was forgotten at once, "I'll go for Holmes, thank you very much."

There was silence on the other side, and John wondered whether Sherlock had hung up, "Mr. Holmes? Are you there?"

"Oh, Lord. Did you hear the dial tone?" Sherlock drawled.

"No... I guess you're on line then."

"Hmm." And more silence.

"So... how'd you get my number?"

"Pfft. I thought you would be interesting to talk to. How naive of me to think so! You're just as boring as your lectures."

John sighed, smiling and wanting to ask him whether this was his new flirting technique, "So, am I to assume that you'll be regularly calling my phone now?"

"Oh, please! I'm not as jobless as you think. As for your number, I - ahem - acquired your business card, ages ago."

Jeanette arrived, smiling at him sweetly. He returned her smile, checking her out. She looked really nice. John swallowed and looked away, "Look, Mr. Holmes, I'm really busy now, so..."

"I bet it's something uninteresting," John could hear him smirking over the phone, "Tell me about it."

"John?" came Jeanette's voice from her room. John's palm went to hastily cover the mouthpiece, "Give me one minute, darling."

"Ooh, darling?" came Sherlock's voice from the other end, "Is that what you're calling your girlfriend? How pedestrian!"

"Sherl-Mr. Holmes, why have you called me?" he almost hissed into the phone.

"Erm... I was just hoping if you had changed your mind about my proposition."

John found himself reddening but he managed to find his voice anyway, "No, Mr. Holmes. You're still my student, and I'm not gay."

Sherlock let out a deep chuckle, "I didn't say you were gay. I merely asked you whether you'd like to be my boyfriend. Why do you have to introduce an unnecessary keyword?"

John literally sprinted to his room, not wanting Jeanette to hear anything about the conversation. He could swear that there was someone else beside Holmes, probably that girl/friend of his, "I don't think I want to have this conversation."

"Right. Anyway, professor, did you figure out my riddles yet? Or would you like an... intimation?"

John swallowed at the choice of his word. He knew his shallow breathing could be heard over the phone, and he hated himself for that, "I have more important things to do, than to play your little mind games, Mr. Holmes."

Another chuckle, "No you don't. In fact, you're enjoying this."

"Excuse me?"

"Otherwise you would've cut the phone as soon as your girlfriend had arrived. And before you tell me that she's not," John blushed when he heard that. He was just about to tell him that, "I know for a fact that she is, I've known for ages. You can fool everyone professor, but you can't fool me. I know that you aren't happy with her, just like you aren't happy with your job."

John didn't bother to reply. He just held on to the phone like it was the most precious thing in the whole world. Like it was his lifeline. He wanted his finger to reach out and press that little 'end call' button, but he found that he couldn't, not with Holmes deep voice keeping him in place, hypnotising him.

"I've seen how you change around me, John," Sherlock continued, this time his voice much gentler and much more tender than he had ever heard, and suddenly John felt like he was the immature one in there. Holmes understood this more than he had expected, "Stop denying it-"

"I'm marking your paper now, Mr. Holmes," John spoke with difficulty, hating every word that came out of his mouth to silence Sherlock, "unless you want me to fail you."

"Do that. See, I told you. You want this, but you're too repressed."

"John?" came Jeanette's voice from outside his room. John didn't bother to open the door and grace her with a look.

"I expect that essay on synapses on my desk on Thursday, Mr. Holmes," John straightened up and looked at himself in the mirror: tired and looking almost broken, "Try and study hard."

And before Sherlock could say anything else, he cut the phone and sat down on his bed, thinking about why Holmes always set down truths in front of him like the Ten Commandments. He felt thankful that he wasn't calling him back anymore. He tried his best not to take the phone back in his hand, but he found that he had already somehow saved his number in his phone, not under the name Holmes, but under Sherlock.

A few miles away, Molly took a sample of Sherlock's blood and transferred it into a vial, as Sherlock just sat on the stool, wondering what Dr. Watson was thinking.


	8. Chapter 8

**You could sneak out of uni and come and join me. SH**

* * *

"Enough?" Molly asked Sherlock, passing him the vial as he stuck a plaster right where she had drawn his blood from. He peered at the crimson fluid curiously for some time, wondering how this was responsible for giving away the signs of attraction towards for another person. Molly settled down on the couch with the laptop on her thighs, browsing through loads of research material, "Sherlock, are you sure that this will be accepted? I mean, this isn't strictly legal-"

Sherlock gave a hollow chuckle, his heart rate starting to lower as minutes passed after he had made that phone call to Dr. Watson. He had made sure that Molly had her ear plugs on while he talked to him. He really didn't want her to know that Dr. Watson wasn't exactly in high spirits about his job, or the fact that he had a girlfriend. Molly would start lecturing him if she heard the second one.

"I'm experiencing attraction to someone for the first time, Molly," said he, as he started taking down notes into his book, "I might as well take some advantage of it."

She heaved an exasperated sigh, wondering whether Sherlock really had anything for Dr. Watson, or if he was just messing with her. She shook those thoughts away. She had seen the way Sherlock's eyes had lit up when he had been talking to Dr. Watson, and she was pretty sure the man on the other line had been fairly entertaining in his conversation. Sherlock was laughing, and Molly had to give it to the professor, the man who made him laugh instead on a small smile and a chuckle. She refrained from asking him anything about what he had said. She wasn't going to pry. Sherlock would surely tell her if she needed to know about it.

It was actually weird that Sherlock could deal with this so easily and so naturally, and yet when it came to the knowledge that Molly considered him his best friend, he had gone into a silent panic attack.

Or maybe, Sherlock was just experimenting. That was more probable. No one's really serious about their first crushes. Even though Sherlock looked quite happier than she had ever seen him, he could've been just doing what he always did: analyse. She wouldn't be much surprised if Sherlock came up to her with a full project upon how attraction developed in human beings and how evolution was a key factor in deciding how the signs differed from one species to other. She found herself giggling silently at that.

"Molly," was the only warning she got about the fact that she was thinking too much and that she really needed to go back to studying, "I'll do the synthesis, you do the paperwork."

That was always the way. Sherlock would do the required research and leave the burden of typing the report upon her shoulders. She saw him put the vial down on the table and stand, preparing the apparatus. There was total silence in the flat except for the clink of glass as she stared blankly at the screen, wondering what exactly he was up to. Then turning back to her work and placing all her trust into Sherlock, who could do impossible things when it came to chemistry, she opened Pages and then, her typing was all that filled the flat in resonance with the clinking glass and the hiss of chemicals that she didn't bother asking where he had got them from.

Sherlock's fingers were focused on the agglutination process as his phone lay beside his notebook, every fibre in his body screaming to him to call Dr. Watson again, and ask him if he was going to reconsider his answer, but he felt that it wouldn't be appropriate. He wanted to get started on the synthesis, and this was the first time he had been starting on any assignment before the deadline had passed. He wanted to not feel the doubt that had been filling inside his head, but he just couldn't stop. He knew right from the first Thursday class that Dr. Watson had a girlfriend who had a horrible fashion sense when it came to men's watches, but he hadn't known that they lived together, and the thought that the nights which he had spent thinking how to ask him out could've been the nights that she and John...

He always missed something, and he hated it.

"Sherlock?" he heard Molly's voice from the couch. Mrs. Hudson had been calling and he hadn't been responding, "You alright? Mrs. Hudson's asking for you and about what you've done with the milk."

Sherlock heaved a sigh, not bothering to reply as sat down on the chair, his fingers absently brushing over his right wrist, remembering the only physical contact he had ever had with his professor, as he turned thoughts in his head. He hated the fact that he was inexperienced in this, that he had to turn to Molly. That he was so unsure about something for the very first time in his life, and that he was entertaining so many negative 'what-ifs' to intrude into his mind. Only he knew how many doubts were cramming inside his mind as he went with what the world called "the gut feeling" for the first time. With a clear of his throat, he rose and wrote down the reactions he would be needing for isolation of the chemical compound of the desired nature, hoping that the experiment would distract him from everything.

"Right," he exhaled as Molly followed him with her eyes, "Don't disturb me unless you're having a heart attack."

"Sherlock Holmes!" came a scandalised exclaim from Mrs. Hudson, as Molly tried not to wince at that. He was simply glad that he had the older woman on semi permanent mute. He lit the burner, and set the blood for coagulation, collecting the colourless leftover fluid from it, his mind keeping John and his smile in the back of his head as he began separating the components...

* * *

By half-past-eight, Molly decided to let Sherlock work on his own accord. Knowing how Sherlock could go on for hours and not register her absence, she left a note indicating the time she had left under the bunch of notes she had made for him. She was just about to hail a taxi when a black fancy car pulled up in front of her. Sighing to herself as the door was opened for her, she climbed in, finding that Anthea woman beside her.

"You know, Mr. Holmes could just phone me, on this." She displayed her pink phone, every inch covered with 'Hello Kitty' stickers. Anthea glanced distastefully at it, and returned to her seemingly never-ending texting. Molly wanted to peep at the screen, just to annoy her, and then she wondered how hanging with Sherlock was starting to affect her as well.

As always, the car pulled up in front of an abandoned power station, with Mycroft Holmes standing there, twirling his umbrella in his fingers and smiling pleasantly at her, which she only managed to return half-heartedly, "Good evening, Ms. Hooper. I hope your journey was pleasant."

Molly shrugged her shoulder as she sat down on the chair that he directed her to, "It would be if you had an assistant who could make conversation for a change."

As the car drove away, giving them complete privacy, Molly's fingers curled around the pepper spray concealed inside her bag, but Mycroft only tutted at her, "Really Ms. Hooper? You're Sherlock only... friend. I wouldn't let any _harm_ come to you."

She chuckled, despite herself, "Sorry."

Mycroft smiled insincerely as their surroundings were draped in silence again. Molly remained completely lifeless as Mycroft finally gave in, "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Have you got one?" She asked, mustering as much courage as she could. Despite knowing him for two years, Mycroft Holmes still scared the shit out of her. Surprisingly, Mycroft's hands roamed around his suit, as if he were actually searching for a penny. But all he found was a gold credit card out of his wallet. He showed that to her, as Molly let herself enjoy the moment a little bit, "Will this be adequate?"

"Keep that. Sherlock's got plenty at his flat."

This time, he let out a laugh, "Yes, of course. But you know why I've called you here, don't you?"

"No," she lied.

"Does the name 'Watson' ring any bell?" he asked, trying to look busy as he drew out a pocketbook, going through the pages one by one. Molly knew that it was no use lying to him.

"Yes. Dr. Watson is our anatomy professor," said she, trying to keep her voice even. Could Mycroft not keep out his brother's life for this time just for once? It was already too complicated, and the last thing he needed was Mycroft coming over and "investigating" into it. Then she remembered that Mycroft was his family, that he had every right to do so, but the way he approached her instead of Sherlock made her forget about that fact a little too often.

"Only a professor? Are you sure?"

Molly wondered if she should tell him. That would be doing the right thing, because she couldn't bear to see Sherlock pining away after an impossible crush. Although she wasn't sure if he would do that, after all, he was Sherlock...

"Yeah, why would you think otherwise?"

And instantly, she was subjected to the most intense scrutiny that she had ever experienced, that dared to rival even that of Sherlock's penetrating stare. She tried not to cower, and Mycroft looked away first, making her feel victorious, but she assumed that he did that just to make her feel at ease, "Because in my experience, I've never seen Sherlock take such an interest in another human being. Quite attractive, this Dr. John Watson is, don't you think?"

She scowled at him, "So?"

Mycroft smiled again, giving her a faux-surprised look, "I thought I was going to be asking you questions here, but if you prefer it the other way round, I'll be very... _happy_ to oblige."

"Just," her jaws clenched and her knuckled whitened as she restrained herself from slapping him across the face, "get on with it."

"I'll ask you again. Who is Dr. Watson?"

"I told you, he's our anatomy-"

"I meant who he is to Sherlock. His crush, or simply his new distraction?"

At the last word, Molly stood up, unable to control herself anymore at having suggested such a heartless thing, "Tell me that we're done, because I'm seriously fighting an impulse to punch you in the face."

Mycroft let out a deep rumble of laughter at that, "It's amazing how many people want that, but they never succeed. Not even Sherlock."

She stepped up nearer to him, but Mycroft didn't back away, "I'm more than willing to change that."

"Hmm, I believe you... is it that serious?"

She wanted to sneer at him, but she only turned on her heel and started to walk away, "You don't need to send a car. I'll find my own way."

"I won't do anything, Ms. Hooper," Mycroft called after her, "I promise. You should know that more than the most. I worry about him."

"Spare me that, Mr. Holmes," she turned angrily to him, "If you're so concerned, you shan't have to come to me like a spy or something!"

Instantly, Mycroft looked down at his over-polished shoes, his fingers reaching out to pick up imaginary lint from his otherwise pristine suit,"If I had to pry into his life, don't you think that I'd have, as you put it very kindly and completely inappropriately, "kidnapped" Dr. Watson instead of you?"

She swallowed as she saw the lines of his face grave and concerned for the first time. Mycroft looked his age, and yet much older at the same time, and suddenly Molly felt much more vulnerable than she had ever found herself. If Mycroft could look so uncertain, she had no idea what her position was, "Is Sherlock sure about this, Ms. Hooper? That's his teacher."

She took in a sharp intake of breath, her mind thinking up the best possible response to throw in his direction, "I'm telling you for the last time, Mr. Holmes. You're mistaken."

However the look on Mycroft's face told her that he had all that he needed to know. The car arrived behind her. With a last look, she clambered into the car and typed in a text to Sherlock.

**_Mycroft knows. He had me kidnapped again._**

* * *

For two days, Sherlock did not attend university. He remained in his sitting room from day till night, his mind completely occupied by his newest experiment, comparing his blood sample with that of an average human being who was not in love, and that of a drug addict. He had made Molly bribe one or two students to "donate" their blood for some good amount of cash he had acquired from one of the debit cards that he had stolen from Mycroft, and which the latter had probably forgotten about. As for the addict, well... no one needed to know how he had obtained that. It should suffice to say that he was just glad that Raz still remembered him. Although he knew that serotonin was a neurotransmitter, he wasn't searching for that because it was obvious that it had to be there. He was hoping for something new. Mycroft had paid him one or two visits, asking him why he wasn't attending uni, and thankfully, he hadn't asked anything about anyone, seeing as he already had figured out that Molly had told Sherlock about what had happened. But, all in all, there was one thing which was quite unusual and surprising.

Only two days and he was missing Dr. Watson. Sherlock sighed to himself, wondering how he would spend Christmas holidays if this was what he was going to have to prepare himself for. He longed to pick the phone up and text him, or better yet, call him just to hear his voice. He didn't remember the last time he had wanted to call anyone. He preferred to text. Always.

Meanwhile, in St. Bart's, John had hoped to ignore Holmes and if the latter tried to talk to him in any place other than a classroom full of students, he would strictly tell him that he needed to stop staying after class, or stop calling him, although he had done that only once, only to find Molly with her girlfriends that day, and no tall lanky boy in jeans and shirt and jumper with her. He tried to tell himself that he really needed Holmes to stop whatever he was doing or whatever he was expecting from all this, and he also tried to convince himself that telling Holmes off wasn't simply an excuse to see him. He wanted to tell Holmes that he was wrong about him, that he was perfectly okay with Jeanette and that he didn't need a student ten years younger than him to make inferences about his personal life.

During lunch, his phone buzzed. He groaned upon seeing the name and the initials, and the way at how it sent blood rushing through his ears.

**_How's the boring lunch going? SH_**

No one was looking at him. John's fingers itched to send a reply, but he didn't, instead laughing at the lame joke one of the professors were telling them.

**_I'll give you two clues as to where I am. SH_**

John rolled his eyes, and finally managed to send a text back instead of switching the phone off, blaming Harriet for that because he needed hourly updates on her from Clara.

**_Why?_**

**_You could sneak out of uni and come and join me. SH_**

He frowned at the audacity of the text. He was a goddamned professor, and he was expecting him to come out of the campus?! He knew that Holmes **was** expecting him to, because otherwise he wouldn't have taken the "pains" to type it at all.

**_That's the first clue, by the way. SH_**

He looked around him, the only one immersed in his phone except for those group of girls who kept taking selfies and texted each other from one end to the table to another. He leaned back in his chair, angling the phone such that anyone walking behind him would not be able to distinguish anything on the screen because of the lights.

**_That was obvious._**

**_Not to everyone, John. SH_**

He gritted his teeth, but if anyone cared to look at him, they would've seen a silly smile on his face. **_I'm your teacher. No first names._**

Instead, John was rewarded with a text consisting of only his name written over and over again. Now, even he knew that he was smiling.

**_I used copy/paste, by the way. SH_**

John burst out laughing at the screen of his phone, imagining Sherlock saying that to him meekly. All the other professors stared weirdly at him, and John realised that one of them had been telling them about his recent divorce. He excused himself out of there awkwardly, and rushed to the nearest lavatory, afraid that if someone saw him, they would know, they would surely know what a wrong thing he was doing. John hated himself for always liking the thrill of doing something that no one was going to like, and Sherlock was simply playing on that. John wondered whether he really was that obvious. And before he knew it, he had dialled Sherlock's number and was holding his breath before the other person picked it up.

"Sherlock Holmes," came the smooth reply from the other side of the phone. John slumped against the wall upon hearing his voice. How come Sherlock had that effect on him? He shouldn't be doing this. He really shouldn't. He should be ashamed of himself that he had even thought of telling Holmes off for calling his mobile, when he was doing the exact same thing.

"Hey," was all John could manage. There was no answer from the other side, "Holmes, you there?"

"Hmm... So eager to talk with me."

John cleared his throat and tried to compose himself. This was wrong. This was so wrong, "I've called to ask you to stop texting my number."

There was a beat after which Sherlock replied, "You had to _call_ for that?! I don't believe so, John."

"Stop... calling me John," he sucked in a breath and tried to lower his voice further, "It's not appropriate."

He knew Holmes was rolling his eyes at him, "Okay, _professor_," and John hated the way he said 'professor', "You could've simply texted me. Why - did - you - call?"

"You need to stop calling my phone, Mr. Holmes," John tried to sound strict, and surprisingly he did. But it had no effect on Sherlock, as usual, "The second clue is-"

"Sherlock, please," John sucked in a breath, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, "You're ruining my life."

There was a long pause, but this time John did not ask him whether he had hung up or not. Finally, Holmes replied, the usual confidence in his voice gone, "I... didn't mean to..."

"No!" John blurted out before he could think properly, and then he looked around to see if anyone was there in the staff lavatory. No one. He retreated to a corner, and whispered into his phone, "Okay, give me the first clue."

And the poise was back in his voice. John wondered if Holmes had simply tricked him into feeling guilty, "You've already had your first clue, professor."

"Oh, really? I can tell you're at home, wherever that might be."

"Yup," said Sherlock, popping the 'p', "But I want you to work out the location. But I suppose you can't, given how placid your mind can be..."

Now John felt really offended, even though he was quite used to his insults. He didn't get a Ph. D just like that, "Hang on, now-!"

"- so straight forward, barely used..."

"Oi!" John instantly turned around to see if anyone had heard him from outside. He peeked out as if he were a refugee. The bell rang outside, signalling the end of lunch. He returned to the corner, his heart hammering insanely, his lips twitching up in a small smile. "What're you doing now?" He asked him breathlessly.

"Completing my project. It's due after two weeks," Sherlock sounded amused, maybe at his own feat. John felt his eyebrows going up on their own accord.

"Really? As far as I remember, you never submitted your assignments, let alone on time, when I let them out."

"This one's... different."

"How so?"

"You'll see. Anyway, the next clue-"

The final bell rang. John grabbed his bag, almost about to say "I'll call you later, Sherlock", and then instead responded with a different goodbye note, "Stop calling or texting me, Mr. Holmes."

The smoothly delivered "will do" told John that Holmes was not going to give up so easily. He looked at himself in the mirror and washed his face, wondering what he had got himself into.

* * *

**I was writing a long 8th chapter instead of the 8th and the 9th, but word limit got in the way.**


	9. Chapter 9

I've never been attracted to men... So why should I be attracted to you?

Sherlock smirked, his fingers travelling over John's deliberately, but the latter kept it there resolutely, believing that pulling his hand away would be conceding defeat, "You tell me."

**Scalpel and shameless amounts of seduction... that should sum it up, I think.**

* * *

A few weeks and a Halloween party later that Sherlock went grudgingly to and in which Molly got a little too drunk, Molly and Sherlock were dissecting frogs in the dissection lab with the rest of their incompetent fellow students, as Sherlock put it, and as Molly disagreed wholeheartedly but didn't say that aloud, not really wanting to invite his wrath. Until recently, Molly had been very absorbed in her work, but Sherlock had been stealing glances of Dr. Watson who had been helping a girl at the other side of the lab. Not that Molly ever caught him doing so, but she knew that he had been, because that girl was practically shoving her chest in Dr. Watson's direction and trying to give him disgusting nicknames, and something like that would never miss Sherlock's attention. But Sherlock seemed very absorbed in his dissected frog as he labelled the parts in his lab journal. Molly made up her mind, and raised her hand tentatively, "Professor?"

Sherlock looked at her in undisguised surprise, probably wondering why she hadn't asked him if she had any doubts, as Dr. Watson practically sprinted across to the other side of the room, only to find that the person who had called him was sitting right next to Sherlock. The latter smiled inwardly as he realised why Molly had done whatever she had done.

"Yes, Ms. Hooper?"

But Molly was no less. She was determined to get back at her best friend for a lot of things, namely gate crashing upon her and her boyfriend after their first time, "Sherlock has a doubt for you, sir."

Oh, how she was going to enjoy this, the awkwardness of it! Sherlock was staring at her in such a way that said _I will do painful things to you later_. Molly just gave him a winning smile and retreated to the other side, "I'll be just a moment."

And before Sherlock could say anything to deny such a claim, Molly had walked away to one of her girlfriends. Dr. Watson was resolutely avoiding his gaze; as if he was afraid that if he even looked at Sherlock, other students would know.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock tried to look away. He had never confronted Dr. Watson at such... short notice. He truly hated Molly, who was two tables away, her attention focussed on her friend and teaching her to dissect the amphibian properly. What had he ever done to her? Sherlock swallowed, wondering why he was avoiding his gaze when he could be so much confident otherwise in front of him. He backed away a little, not really prepared for this, unlike the other times when he would know how to play it. Dr. Watson fixed him with an artfully questioning look, and Sherlock simply swallowed, wanting to make most of this opportunity that Molly had very cruelly given him.

"Erm... I - I, just erm... sir, could you just erm... help me with labelling the... uh, the heart?"

He saw the small flicker of a smile across Dr. Watson's face. He was clearly enjoying seeing Sherlock nervous for the first time instead of the other way round, "You've done it the wrong way, Mr. Holmes. The dissection," he pointed it out, his eyebrows arched, as he fixed him with a interrogatory look.

"Have I now?" Sherlock countered back challengingly, "I don't think so."

But Dr. Watson simply smiled in response, and disposed off the frog into the wastebin, and took a fresh one, giving it to Sherlock, "I'm the professor here, Mr. Holmes." He folded his arms over his chest as he indicated to the dead amphibian on the table as he took his glasses off, "Do it in front of me."

It sounded like an order, something Sherlock almost scrambled to obey. His gloved fingers wrapped themselves around the scalpel, as he sucked in a breath, using it to make an incision horizontally across its throat. His fingers shook, and he cut in a little too deeply than the epidermal layer, stopping instantly.

"Not like that, _Mr. Holmes_," said Dr. Watson smoothly, saying 'Mr. Holmes' the way Sherlock said 'professor'. As if he were also insistent on getting back at Sherlock for troubling him for all these days, "Let me show you."

And before Sherlock could say anything, he felt the professor's gloved fingers brush against his for an instant before Dr. Watson took the scalpel from him and made a neat incision horizontally between the two hind legs. Sherlock was unable to recover himself for a second as his throat felt parched. If only those fingers hadn't been gloved...

"She knows, doesn't she?" Dr. Watson indicated towards Molly, who was having the most frustrating moment of her life trying to explain to her friend the difference between the frog's heart and its liver.

"She found out," Sherlock shrugged his shoulder, like he couldn't help it. Of course he couldn't. He was, as he considered himself, "a rookie" in such matters, and he had to ask an expert some advice on love.

"You'll have to stop texting my phone, Mr. Holmes," said he, as he leaned in. To anyone else, it looked as if Dr. Watson was teaching a particularly dumb student how to slice up a frog, well only if they didn't know that Sherlock wasn't a dumb student at all. No one could make out the whispers passed under the breath. No one could make out the brief intervals when their fingers brushed against each others, slow and deliberate and lingering, and in imminent danger of the scalpel cutting through their fingers instead.

"You could start by not replying, erm..."

At that point, Sherlock saw a side of Dr. Watson he had never known that could exist. He was enjoying that risk, the thrill that the scalpel could cut through him any instant, but he was careful enough to avoid it. Sherlock tried his best not to smile at that, as his heart picked up the pace, when Dr. Watson's fingers overlapped with his as if relishing the feel of Sherlock's longer, dexterous fingers under him, guiding them as he made a tiny vertical incision near the neck, just to give him an idea of how much pressure he should apply. Sherlock knew just how much, but he resolutely kept his fingers under him while his heart tap-danced in his chest, letting them be guided by Dr. Watson's skilled fingers, liking it and finding the newly arousing desires of physical intimacy slightly overwhelming and frightening. He wanted to lean in a little more into his touch, while every part of his brain screamed at the unprecedented lack of buzzing thought, making him want to draw his hand away from the warmth. But how he wanted to turn his palm to make it face upwards, to thread the professor's fingers with his, and do the seemingly insignificant actions of sensuality that couples indulged in. He closed his eyes, feeling the contours of his teacher's fingers, enjoying the immensely understated sensation of 'sparks'. Dr. Watson cleared his throat, and retracted his hand away, seeing that Holmes had become completely lax under him, no pun intended.

"You aren't applying the pressure correctly, Mr. Holmes. You cut in too deep, and now when I'm trying to make you do it, you aren't applying any at all."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, as he found his scent receding away from him, every part of him screaming in gratefulness and protest in equal measures. He found his throat inconveniently dry again as Dr. Watson busied himself with Sherlock's lab journal, smiling amusedly at the incomplete entries, and the collection of red marks and 'late submissions' in it.

"Perhaps you could... teach me?"

He'd meant for it to come out masculine and half-joking, but his intentions fell flat as his voice emerged a low, husky version of his baritone. He looked at Dr. Watson, who was definitely enjoying seeing Sherlock so nervous as he cleared his throat, unconsciously licking his lips. Sherlock smiled at that. Dr. Watson was equally nervous; his face was completely flushed. He was trying so hard to be such a sincere professor when he clearly wasn't adept at it.

"Hmm, I thought you... knew it all."

"I do. I'm just checking how good _you_ are."

Sherlock was relieved; his confidence was finally coming back, right when he needed it. He looked down at his professor, hands behind his back, scalpel on the table as one corner of John's mouth tipped upwards, attracting Sherlock's attention to it. He took in his odour again: tea and lime cream aftershave. He could lean in just then, in front of everyone, in front of that slutty girl, and press his lips to his, feeling Dr. Watson's nose against his cheek, still with their backs turned to everyone in the class that could tear them apart. Sherlock frowned at that. He had never felt that peculiar temptation.

"Right, do it properly please," said he, before Sherlock could do anything vastly improper, "You have marks for this so don't screw this up."

He flashed him a smirk as his voice pitched in lower, "Then I'll make sure that I _do_ screw it up, professor."

They looked into each other's eyes intensely and challengingly for a few moments not long enough to be deemed inappropriate but that felt like hours in Sherlock's mind clock, neither of them willing to look down or give in to the other. Dr. Watson had had enough. Nobody should always have their way, and Sherlock certainly wasn't going to, not now at least.

A knock at the door caused Dr. Watson to look away towards it sharply, as if he were a prey that had suddenly spotted the hunter, and Sherlock to look triumphant. He took the scalpel between his fingers, the blade deftly cutting through the belly a perfectly vertical slit, continuing from the cut that Dr. Watson had made

"Yes?"

It was a peon, as he handed the professor a slip of paper. Sherlock folded the skin back to quickly set on the organs, clipping them off with the surgical scissors as Dr. Watson called out, "Ms. Hooper, Mr. Holmes, you are required in the Dean's office."

Behind him a few tables away, Molly made a noise similar to that of a mouse being stepped on. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, and went back to his dissection, not bothering to even ask what it was all about, assuming that he could get out of it by pretending not to hear him. Molly arrived beside him with shaking fingers and a quaking voice too fast for him to be bothered to comprehend, "Sherlock, what have you done now?! And why're they calling me? Is it because I hang out with you? Sherlock, I've told you to stop stealing chemicals from the lab, or taking that skull away to your flat? I told you, I TOLD YOU, DIDN'T I?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth angrily. Why was everything his fault? Good, she deserved this, a little bit of karma for making him confront Dr. Watson without preparing himself mentally!

The class let out an 'ooh' as Molly looked down at her flats, not meeting anyone's gaze, and most certainly not Dr. Watson's, thinking that a bad impression on the teacher would make him mark her down in the midterm exams. But Sherlock didn't budge from his place.

"Sherlock!" she hissed at him, not wanting to go to the Dean's office alone. But Sherlock gave her a small, insincere smile while he sounded like the busiest man on the earth, "You go, Molly and get a look of the interiors of his office, seeing as you've never gone there alone. Maybe, he'll leave the obnoxious Miss Rai for you."

Molly looked at him horror-struck, the beginnings of tears in her eyes at his insensitive reply. He was annoyed for that peon to have come and spoiled the mood. Dr. Watson gave her a reassuring smile, and implored Sherlock with his eyes to go. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, as his annoyance grew further at the fact that Dr. Watson was sticking up for Molly instead of him. With an incoherent grumble, he slid his notebook and his pen into the bookbag and left without a word, accompanying a Molly trying to blink the tears out of her eyes, despite having being used to his cutting comments.

* * *

When they finally walked out of the university, Molly Hooper was the happiest person to walk the earth and Sherlock Holmes was the most... well, bored person in the universe. Well, it was difficult to tell for whom Molly was happier: for herself, or for Sherlock. She decided both, and revelled in the ability to annoy him. Sherlock hated such things, and karma really was on her side. She was getting back at him for all the tricks and practical jokes he had played on her, as for all the experiments he had conducted on her.

Sherlock was in too a bad mood, so Molly decided to let him drive so that she at least didn't have to deal with his sulking while she drove. Somehow, she felt that the responsibility of cheering him up always fell on her shoulders. But she wanted to annoy him as well. But Sherlock's bad mood disappeared a lot quicker as he drove the car in the opposite direction than that of the exit. Before Molly could ask him whether his intention was to drive through the wall, she saw the reason: a short blond young man chasing some rogue papers fluttering to the ground. Sherlock's car stopped next to that of the paper as he peeked out of the window at Dr. Watson's crouching figure. Molly slumped back in her seat, knowing that this was going to take hours. She just hoped that Sherlock didn't request her to take a bus out of there to her flat. She'd kill him if he even dared to ask her that.

But then, she remembered the times she had blown Sherlock off to spend some time with Greg. She was guilty of the same thing.

Sherlock smirked as Dr. Watson came up out of his crouched position, his coat in his left arm, the first two buttons of his cardigan undone, but his tie still in place, and peered through the rolled-down driver's side window.

"Professor Watson," he greeted him, as Molly rolled her eyes dramatically, "What a surprise to find you here. This is a coincidence. I was finding the exit out of here, and here I am almost crashing into you. Literally."

Dr. Watson leaned down, giving the two of them a smart nod of acknowledgement, "Hello. I think you meant 'we', Mr. Holmes, seeing as you have Ms. Hooper beside you as well. As for exit," Dr. Watson straightened up, and pointed to the opposite direction, "It's _that_ way."

"I know," his smirk grew wider as he leaned his elbow out, looking deep into Dr. Watson's eyes which were no longer obscured by his glasses, "I _observed_."

"Clearly."

Molly slumped back further into her seat, as she looked away from the intense eyesex that they were having, "Here we go... Sherlock, do you want me to, I don't know, take a bus maybe? Because this is really awkward for me."

It was almost laughable, how politely she had said that. Well, grades, she didn't care about them anymore. Dr. Watson didn't seem like the teacher who awarded grades on the basis of impression. He was fairly... fair.

"No please, Ms. Hooper. I was just leaving," he smiled kindly at her, and turned to Sherlock, "So this is how it's going to be from now on?" he asked him brusquely, "You're following me home now?"

"Maybe I'll tell you that the next time we meet in the car park," he threw him a saucy wink, "Anyway, have you changed your mind about my proposition yet?"

Dr. Watson stole a glance at Molly, who had earphones in her ears and country pop flooding through them, listening to the music nonchalantly, "I'm not gay, Mr. Holmes, plus you're my student and you're ten years younger than me."

"Good," said Sherlock, "At least you've stopped saying no-"

"NO, Mr. Holmes. I will not go out with you, and I hope that's clear."

"Oh, come on! Are you doing that thing where you, you know, play hard to get or something?" His fingers reached out and snatched away Molly's phone, and her earphones, "Molly? Molly!"

She threw him a weird look and an apologetic one to Dr. Watson as Sherlock resumed speaking to her, "You do that, don't you? Playing hard to get even when the other boy seems completely uninterested in you, and you mistake him for being interested?"

Molly flushed crimson, looking extremely embarrassed, and John sent him a glare. But before he could say anything, Sherlock leaned his other elbow out of the window, and Molly walked out of the car, muttering something about going to Greg, who worked in that auto shop two streets away. John felt much more vulnerable as his eyes tracked Molly's small figure walk out of the car park. He fixed his attention back on Holmes.

"Did you figure out my riddles yet, John?"

John swallowed and sighed, placing one hand on the edge of Sherlock's door. Sherlock pronounced his name as if he enjoyed taking it and rolling the sound in his tongue, "I can't be bothered with such trivialities."

"Really?" Sherlock let out a deep chuckle, as he replaced his left elbow with his fingers, sliding his fingers along the door until they touched and then overlapped John's. He let out an exhale as he spoke, "How about you figure them out now?"

John sucked in a breath, but didn't pull away, his eyes on Sherlock's frustrating, impossible fingers, his breath coming out and entering his lungs in sharp, erratic thrusts. A shiver ran down his spine, as he felt goose bumps cover every inch of his skin, thankfully hidden under the full sleeves of his shirt and his black cardigan as Sherlock stared into his slowly darkening irises, "Let's go by the easier first."

"I've never been attracted to men..." John found himself speaking on his own accord without any thought, "So why should I be attracted to you?"

Sherlock smirked, his fingers travelling over John's deliberately, but the latter kept it there resolutely, believing that pulling his hand away would be conceding defeat, "You tell me."

John looked down at his feet, his hand still trapped under Sherlock's fingers, "Because you're mistaken, Mr. Holmes. That's why. I'm not attracted to you."

Sherlock pulled his hand away then, and raised his window halfway, causing John to snap his fingers backward, "Okay, what about the other one? The cat one?"

Before John could answer, his phone rang out, with the signature text alert of Clara. His expression changed instantly as he fished in his trouser pocket for his phone urgently. Sherlock's expression mirrored that of his, and his face was filled instantly with worry at seeing John's appearance fall from exasperated to anxious and fretful upon seeing the text that had suddenly arrived. He wanted to peek at the screen, see for himself what was causing so much distress to John, but he felt that it will be inappropriate.

"Is it your brother, John? Or your girlfriend?" John found himself looking into Sherlock's concerned eyes, and blinked in surprise, momentarily reprieving himself from the anxiety he felt.

"I don't have a brother," he stated, his eyes narrowing, "perhaps you searched for a wrong 'John Watson' online."

"Come on, now. It's as plain as daylight that you've got a brother or a close male family member, older than you or about your age who's clearly an alcoholic and who's extremely narcissistic to have given away his phone to you, although I suspect that you don't know that."

John staggered backwards, peering at Sherlock with incredulity, and then shook his head, "Never mind where you got that from. I need to go-" He started to walk away when Sherlock's voice stopped him.

"I assume it's urgent. You really shouldn't trust the bus service."

John turned towards him, frowning, wondering how Sherlock knew that he took the bus and suspecting if he was about to offer him what he thought he was about to. Sherlock unlocked the door to the to his adjacent seat, "Come on in. I'll give you a lift."

John still didn't move, despite the urgency, watching the young student he had been so harsh to a few moments ago with surprise. He wondered why Holmes was still so insistent about this, and why he still wanted to help him in spite of everything, all the rejection that John had thrown in his direction. Sherlock pulled up beside him, and opened the door for John, "Standing here isn't going to make you reach there any faster. Don't be an idiot. Get in."

John couldn't remember the last time anyone had been so... kind to him. He had never expected this from Holmes, of all people. Holmes who always threw rude comments in his direction and made his life miserable, and the person he thought about just before drifting off to sleep, who somehow seemed to know everything about him more than John himself did. John still had no idea where he had got that bit about Harriet from. He got in and closed the door beside him.

"Address?"

"Erm... Farringdon street," said he, wearing the seatbelt, "Please, make it fast."

Sherlock gave him a curt nod and set out straight out of the parking lot.

* * *

**Next chapter is about an intervention. I thought I should warn you.**

**Oh, and Sherlock and Jeanette meet for the first time.**


	10. Chapter 10

**"Good evening, I'm Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson's student from St. Bart's. I don't know you, you don't know me, so that's a perfectly good start because I'll be unable to judge you for anything other than the fact that you're being an utter, what's that parlance, yes... 'dick' to your all-suffering brother. And apart from the countless boring facts that I've accumulated about you since the past forty five minutes."**

**-Sherlock's intervention speech to Harry**

**Chapter got long. Sorry for that. On the bright side, I can sit on the laptop for more hours! :)**

* * *

"So, _professor_," Sherlock started, as they made it to the main road, "What made you take a stroll in the parking on such a fine evening?"

John sighed. He thought Holmes became a little serious after starting his car with such urgency. He had even been on his way to send his biggest thanks to God, but no! Holmes was never serious. That was like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs.

"I was just saying goodbye to a friend-!"

"You were stalking me," he stated peremptorily, "You were definitely stalking me."

John looked away, trying to fight the blush rising in his cheeks. He didn't even understand why he was blushing. He didn't even know that Holmes had a car, why would he stalk him in the parking? If he had to stalk him, he would go to the... no, damn it! He was not going to think about stalking Holmes. He stole a fleeting glance at him, and looked away almost at once.

"Eyes on the road, Mr. Holmes," was all he could manage.

Sherlock stopped smiling as he almost ran into a pet dog straying away from its owner into the road. He resolutely avoided asking Dr. Watson about what the text was about, although he was very sure that it was something more related to his brother than his girlfriend, maybe his alcohol addiction problem, although why John didn't admit that he had a brother was beyond him at the moment.

If only humans had made a device that could measure awkwardness/discomfort on a scale from 0-100, Sherlock would've been very glad to use it for an experiment right now.

Dr. Watson had been very silent since then, looking around at the interiors of the small car. Yes, small. Mycroft had forced Sherlock to earn the amount for himself. All Sherlock needed to do was steal one of his credit cards and go to a dealer and get a car that could accommodate his long legs well enough. By some chance of fate, Mycroft welcomed him with a lemonade and a smug smile plastered on his face when he reached there, and bought the one car that was the cheapest, the worst and the most compact and the most uncomfortable model available, just to teach him a lesson.

Ah, brothers! The things they did to both teacher and student.

Molly had laughed her head off when she had seen his car for the first time, and had taunted Sherlock for a week. He loathed to admit it, but her second-hand car was much better. And then he started to wonder why he was thinking about such a mundane topic as cars.

Of course, he reminded himself the web article on Cosmopolitan that he had read very carefully, as if it were his research thesis. He was going to experience a desire to seek his crush's approval from time-to-time as he found himself wondering what Dr. Watson was thinking about the car.

Dr. Watson looked around, as if acquainting himself with the interiors, as if he would be travelling in it a lot in near future.

"Nice car," said he awkwardly after those cursed two minutes, causing Sherlock to almost bite his tongue in annoyance. The gesture didn't go unnoticed by Dr. Watson, whose legs fitted well enough in the front seat, who looked around guiltily for that having come out of his mouth. Sherlock pressed harder on the accelerator, and then let go again, realising that he was letting his annoyance at his pathetic excuse of a brother get to him again.

The awkwardness reached a new level when Dr. Watson decided to fiddle with the radio. He flicked through the channels, moving from the one where nuclear policy was being discussed to where a heavy riff was playing. Dr. Watson decided that he liked it and set it to that, as Sherlock merely tried not to laugh out loud when he realised what song it was. He had heard that one when Molly had once requested him to go around Greg's auto shop and it had been playing there.

"...I've got it bad, got it bad, got it bad. I'm hot for teacher!"

Dr. Watson's eyes widened as he realised that Van Halen's 'Hot For The Teacher' was playing. He quickly stole a glance at Sherlock, who was merely smiling to himself as if he were guilty of it, and changed the station again.

"...Oh teacher I need you like a little child..." Sherlock almost burst into laughter at the other song that he identified as Elton John's, "You got something in you to drive a schoolboy wild... You give me education in the lovesick blues... Help me get straight come out and say..."

" 'Get straight', huh?" Sherlock joked, despite the seriousness of the situation they were driving towards, "How appropriate!"

"Do you know that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?" He countered back.

"Touché," said he, while trying his best not to laugh at Dr. Watson's discomfort.

And Dr. Watson changed the station again, his cheeks colouring furiously. Sherlock wondered whether Mycroft knew that he was in his car with Dr. Watson, and if he had paid off the RJs at the radio stations to play only student/teacher songs.

"...Highway to hell. I'm on a highway to hell!..."

Dr. Watson leaned back, a little more at ease. AC/DC always saved the day for him. Sherlock's jaw muscles clenched in frustration. He really liked making him uncomfortable, and the radio wasn't being helpful anymore.

"... And I'm goin' down... Woo, Brian that intensity!" the radio blared on, "anyway, tell me if you've heard of Rufus Wainwright. Because the next song is a little slow and piano-ish, requested by Anna..."

Sherlock listened on. Judging by the name of the artist, and 'slow', this one sounded promising. Dr. Watson was looking out of the window at the rest of the suburban London rushing past them.

"...Yeah, this one song makes me feel shafted since my art teacher growing up was a smock-and-clog wearing female. Anyway listeners, hold on 'cause this one's a good one!"

And before Dr. Watson could do anything, the slow mundane piano began with. Sherlock would've changed it himself, had they not announced something about 'art teacher'. Maybe Mycroft _had_ done that. Paid off some Anna-something to request for such a song. Or maybe that was Anthea or whatever she bothered to call herself.

"... There I was in uniform... lookin' at the art teacher... I was just a girl... then Never have I loved since then..."

This time, Sherlock couldn't keep it in. He burst out laughing.

"...He was not that much older than I was... He had taken our class to the Metropolitan Museum... He asked us what our favourite work of art was... But never could I tell it was him..."

Yeah. Mycroft had definitely done _that._

Dr. Watson finally gave up and switched it off, pretending to be busy in the blank papers that he hurriedly fished out of his bag.

"That is very wrong," Sherlock remarked, trying to sound very puzzled while his voice almost vibrated with amusement, "I did tell my teacher that I-"

"Shut up, Mr. Holmes!" he exclaimed, putting a finger up to silence him just as he was in the middle of forming the next word. Sherlock merely smiled and looked away, fixing his attention on the traffic. They swept past his flat, and Sherlock pointed at the door bearing the brass letters '221B', showing it to Dr. Watson, "That's where I live."

John didn't reply. Because if he did, he would surely ask Sherlock why he was telling him this and Sherlock would start off again.

After sometime, Sherlock pulled up in front of the building that Dr. Watson indicated him to. Just as he got out, Sherlock followed him, locking the car behind him.

"Where are you coming?"

Sherlock looked at him as if the answer was obvious, "I'm accompanying you."

John's cheeks reddened slightly more as he looked down at his shoes, embarrassed at letting any student, and of all his students, letting Holmes witness such a chaotic scene in his family, "I didn't invite you."

"I went ahead and invited myself," said he, with a self-satisfied and very ill-timed smirk on his face.

"No, you're not. You don't even know my sister!" John exclaimed, as he entered the building and as Sherlock entered after him. They kept on arguing that Sherlock needed to leave, and that he had invited himself as they walked in on Clara and Jeanette, along with some other people that Sherlock assumed were related to John's brother. They stared at the newcomers weirdly, wondering who the lanky boy accompanying John was.

"Jeanette?" John began incredulously, "What're _you_ doing here?"

But Jeanette's eyes were fixed on Sherlock and his unkempt curls, and she looked like she was wondering why John had brought a young and unnamed boy to an intervention. Clara held a sheet of paper in her hand, and gave one to John, "Read this. I'm so, so sorry John. I know we had planned it for the next week and I know it's such short notice-"

"It's okay, really... Where's Harry?" John asked, forgetting Sherlock's or Jeanette's presence in the room.

"Ben is with her. He's the one who found her in a drunk tank two days ago," and then she burst into tears, sobbing into the affectionate shoulder that John instantly provided her, "They're c-coming over here now."

John had never felt any guiltier. Sherlock had occupied so much of his thoughts since the past week that he hadn't had the time to ask Clara about Harry. He glanced up at Jeanette, only to find her mouthing to him as if asking him who the boy was. And then he turned around to see Sherlock inspecting the room carefully, as if cataloguing every detail. John wiped Clara's tears away gently and set her down on the sofa, before turning his attention to him.

"Right, ahem, this is Sherlock Holmes, and I, erm..." John tried to find an excuse for Sherlock's presence, "He thought-"

He almost flinched when Sherlock's piercing gaze settled on Jeanette, as if searching in her what made John choose her over him, apart from the fact that she was a female and not his student.

"Oh," Jeanette smiled challengingly, interrupting John, "So, this is your... favourite student, isn't he? _Mister_ Holmes."

John wheeled around at her in confusion, at which she rolled her eyes, smiling at his perplexed face, "Oh, come on! The one who you text all the time and the one with whom you stay on the phone for hours, and whose paper you spend a lot time correcting although he never writes much, right? Anyway," she extended her hand to Sherlock, who was smirking at her almost appreciatively, "pleasure to meet you at last."

"Hi," he fixed her with a stare from top to bottom while shaking her hand. She was an interesting woman, almost with a tendency to cheat on her steady, he deduced by the way she had looked at him for the first two seconds. He knew that there was no point pretending that he didn't know about her, "you must be John's girlfriend."

John tried not to cower at the palpable tension in the room. Jeanette's smile grew wider and colder as she heard him calling his professor 'John', "Yes, _John's_ girlfriend. Jeanette."

They looked like they were having an internal tug-of-war with John in between. Clara continued to snivel, and blow her nose. John came between them, almost as a physical barrier, looking angry and extremely embarrassed and covering it up very admirably at the same time, "You were eavesdropping on me?"

She sniggered, "Please! You're always so loud when you say that, _'No, Mr. Holmes! You're my student_' and all that stuff. I think even our neighbours know about it. To tell you the truth, I thought Holmes was a girl, and you know... I thought you called her '_Mister'_' Holmes by mistake."

John felt his cheeks flushing with colour and shame, and subsequently, anger, "Regardless, you couldn't have told me to keep my voice down! No, you had to sneak your way in and listen to whatever conversations I have with my students!" John swallowed before lying to her, "He needs help, okay? He's not exactly a very good student."

Sherlock looked appalled at that, and he found with mouth wide open in horror upon listening to it. However, Clara decided that they were here for something more important, "Quit bickering away like old people!" she squeaked, "We're here for Harry's intervention, not for couples' counselling! I don't care if you've got a student here, John. Please help me out here, and please calm down. We need Harry to get better, don't we?"

John and Sherlock exchanged looks, in which John pleaded him to go away, and Sherlock simply rolled his eyes.

"Why don't you guys take a seat? We can't have people moving once it begins."

Jeanette settled down on the sofa and read through her lines. John wanted to sit away from her. He felt angry that his privacy was being compromised. To his surprise, Sherlock settled down right beside her, being a lot more friendly than he thought he would be with Jeanette of all people. He saw her lean towards him and whisper to him, although he couldn't make out what.

"Interesting, don't you think?" Jeanette whispered in Sherlock's ears as her eyes scanned the text in front of her. Sherlock quirked his eyebrow at her, "What?"

"You know, John has qualms with me being here, whereas he himself escorted you in here. You must be a very... interesting student."

"I think me chose me because I've been to many interventions."

"Is that so? I wonder why... So," her eyebrows went straight up in the air, "he _told_ you that this was an intervention, and that too of his sister's? Definitely an interesting student."

Sherlock smiled sweetly at her, "I wish I could say the same for you, but then I'd be lying."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Whatever befits the quietude of your dull mind and the tragic circumstances around which your existence revolves."

John, sitting at a distance, hoped that they were talking about something... this should never have had happened. Sherlock should never have had met Jeanette. But they did look like they were having a very pleasant conversation. John knew what happened whenever Jeanette was involved in a conversation that was even remotely pleasant. Clara stood up and began.

"Okay, Ben's on his way back with Harry right now. Obviously, she has no idea this is coming, so things might get a little... intense. But, no matter what happens, remember: this is all about Harry getting better, okay? She's going to deny it, but it's our last resort... So, erm... Tim," she turned to one of Harry's friends, "You're going to start because Harry hates you the least," she gave a nervous laugh and Sherlock frowned at that, "and then me, and then Jeanette, Alfie and... erm, John... you'll be last because-"

"Yeah, I know," said he, stealing a glance at Sherlock, wishing for some miracle that could transport Sherlock away from there. Sherlock frowned. Clara was not even acknowledging his presence.

Jeanette regained the smile on her face admirably as Clara finished, everyone waiting for Clara's brother to arrive with Harry, "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock wanted to tell her about her ex-boyfriend, whose name started with 'P' and was a seaman, and who had been a complete and utter dick to her. Or about the fact that she was pregnant and she was trying to hide that fact from John and was undergoing an illegal abortion procedure. But before he could start, a woman arrived in the hallway accompanied by a man, probably that B-person that the sobbing woman was talking about.

"Hey, Clara I-"

Sherlock frowned up at her. She indeed was a woman. Harry was John's sister? He was wrong. John was right. Of course he was right. He was his... her brother. She had to be his sister, because she had John's eyes and his kind smile, although it didn't look kind on her; it bordered on haughty. She was an attractive blonde, was a little taller than John, with streaks of purple in her hair, and like him, she also had a habit of unconsciously licking her lower lip. Apart from that, she was an alcoholic, homosexual, promiscuous, worked in software, and obviously way richer than John was. That Clara woman was probably her girlfriend... or wife.

Everyone, all the seven people in the sitting room tried to look friendly and turned their attention to Harry as she arrived, looking suspiciously at the gathering. Sherlock frowned at that. This intervention was a failure, he could already tell.

"Hey, everyone," said she, putting her purse down, "Hey Tim, how was Miami?"

Sherlock frowned at the person called Tim. He didn't look like he had been to Miami recently. Why was he missing things all of a sudden? Tim looked around, confused, and then replied slowly, "It was great but... it was a year ago, Harry."

She frowned, "What's going on?" She looked around at the room, her eyes observing every familiar detail: Clara's nervous smile, John's tired eyes, Jeanette's curious face, and a stranger sitting beside her, watching her with a bored expression on his face.

"Who the hell are you?" She pointed at Sherlock. John tried not to flinch at the harshness with which the words were delivered towards him. Everyone turned to John for further information other than the fact that he was a student of John's and that his name was Sherlock Holmes. Before Sherlock could say anything, Clara turned her attention to her, sitting right across the vacant seat reserved for Harry, "Um... why don't you take a seat, sweetie? We just want to talk to you for a sec."

She narrowed her eyes and then heaved an all-suffering sigh, "Come on! An intervention? Really? Don't be so lame."

She tried to turn around but Ben didn't allow her to get out, "Harriet, you-"

"I'm not Harriet!" she squealed, "Let me go. I don't want any of this nonsense!"

"Please Harry," Clara didn't leave her place, "We want you to get better, and we're only doing this because we love you."

Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes. That's not a way an intervention should start, because there's no way in hell an alcoholic would buy it. But, to his surprise, Harry sat down on the only vacant place left for her, right between Tim and another woman, and spoke, "Fine, get on with it. And then give me a can of cold beer when you're done."

Clara tried not to sigh at that as she nodded to Tim to start. He hesitated for some time, before looking at his own copy, "Harry, you're not well. You know that, don't you-?"

"Oh, please! I don't even drink!"

"Harry," Clara took the lead when she saw that Tim wasn't working, "Ben found you in a drunk tank, isn't that correct?"

"It was only a few shots!" she protested, "I'm keeping it under control, you know it!"

"Yes, you are, sweetie, but it clearly isn't working. A few shots doesn't end anyone up in a drunk tank. Everybody has been stressed and disturbed by this. We were supposed to go over for a lovely dinner with John and Jeanette, remember? And then... you're clearly upsetting all of us."

Sherlock stole a glance at Jeanette. From what he could gather, she didn't seem upset about that at all.

"And that's why we're all here to tell you about a very good place called-"

"OMG!" Harry exclaimed, faking a yawn, "Could you pass me some sleeping pills, Ben? This is like, really boring!"

Sherlock agreed with her completely. This was a complete disaster. Jeanette took over from Harry, reading directly from her sheet, while reaching out to hold her hand, "Harry, we all want you to get better and enjoy life as much as possible. We're all concerned about you."

"Aw gee, let me know if I bleeding notice."

"Harry, drinking is a vice, you know that," she almost looked as if she were a primary schoolteacher, "It causes stroke, cirrhosis-"

"You've got the spelling wrong in your transcript," Sherlock whispered in her ear, unnoticed by everyone as Jeanette continued, trying her best not to grit her teeth in annoyance, "And several other harmful medical-"

"Yeah, go on!" Harry taunted, "Cancer, fibrosis, inflammations, hepatitis, fucking steatosis... got all from my little bro there," she indicated at John, who was watching her helplessly. Sherlock had never seen John this broken, and he somehow felt that he had to do something as Harry carried on, "Did you know that drinking moderate amounts of alcohol may protect healthy adults from developing coronary heart disease? Didn't you? I fucking did!"

Jeanette looked beaten, and another one of Harry's friends took on. Sherlock tried his best not to sigh at their incompetence. This was clearly not helping Harry. They were averse to humiliating her, or using some sort of strong language, and they were simply repeating things, not really confronting her. They had to put down ultimatums in front of her, something that worked on everyone, no... something that worked on everyone except Sherlock himself.

Finally, John's turn came as Harry listened to everyone with a sneer on her face, as if she were fantasising about another pint sometime later, "Harry, you remember when we were kids, you said that you would never hurt me, you promised me that? Well, that's what you're doing to me now. I want you to get better, just glance over at this," he passed her the brochure for the rehab that they had planned for her, "for mum's sake. Just think, she would never have wanted to see you like this, right? And dad too, right?"

At 'dad's' mention, Harry seemed to soften a bit. She looked away for the first time, suppressing the treacherous tears which were forming in her eyes.

"Do you want a repeat of that, Harry, what Dad did to himself?... In some years, maybe you guys will adopt kids, and then it's gonna be horrible for you, sis-"

"Don't you dare fucking threaten me with dad and kids, John!" she murmured angrily from under her breath, "You don't control my life. I'm happy the way I am!"

"But you're hurting Clara!" said John, "I mean, look at her... See, I know you find it really hard to believe right now but the only reason why I'm doing... we're all doing this is because we love you and we're willing to do whatever it takes to set you on the right track, even if we have to humiliate you like this, it's sorely for your own good and it was as hard for me to do this as it was for you. And if I didn't care for you that much, I wouldn't be doing this for you. I promise, that if you agree to this, we'll drive you there-"

"Are you fucking done?" she snarled, "Is that it, anyone else want to point their fingers at me?" She suddenly turned to Sherlock, who was the only one who had not spoken anything till then, "You wanna say something? Who the fucking hell are you anyway?"

John instantly shut his mouth. The moment he had been dreading had come along. Sherlock cast an eye at his teacher, and then smiled sweetly at her, "Yes, I do. Firstly, Harriet-"

"My name's Harry, fucking stupid!"

"Harriet it is," Sherlock emphasized, and Harry slumped back into the couch angrily, "Firstly, I would like to advise you to not use an extra meaningless word like' fucking' before everything you say. It does not change the meaning at all, and does not create a theatrical effect, if that's what your sole objective is."

John buried his face in his palms. Sherlock was in his 'full insults' mode. This was such a bad idea. This wasn't even his idea. Clara stared at him, completely appalled. Harry scowled, and Sherlock seemed pleased with himself to get some sort of reaction from her, even if it was negative, "What the fuck?"

"Good evening, I'm Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson's student from St. Bart's. I don't know you, you don't know me, so that's a perfectly good start because I'll be unable to judge you for anything other than the fact that you're being an utter, what's that parlance, yes... 'dick' to your all-suffering brother. And apart from the countless boring facts that I've accumulated about you since the past forty five minutes.

"I know exactly what you're going to do after this little useless session ends," he continued nonchalantly, "You're going to roll your eyes at everyone, go to your room, crash into bed, wait for everyone to leave and then you're going to storm past your wife, go out for a drink, maybe two, or just a hundred, get completely inebriated and then you're going to crash into a taxi who'll refuse you, and then you're going to hop into next car which happens to come in your direction and who'll offer you a free lift to home. Of course, you won't know that these people are going to sexually assault you, which will be a million times worse for you since you're not attracted to men at all. After they're done with you, they'll leave you in some abandoned house, leave you to die. One pathway."

Everyone looked horrified at Sherlock's speech. This was way worse than what anybody had expected to come out of his mouth. Jeanette simply shook her head, and tried to pull Sherlock down and stop him from talking but he paid no attention to her.

"Second pathway: you're going to return completely drunk, and Clara will scream at you, because she had staged the intervention for you just this evening. She'll leave you, three weeks later she'll send you her attorney's letter claiming that she wants a divorce. You two will split up, and you'll get to drink more. You'll start sleeping with other women, Clara will do the same thing too. Both times, win-win."

Harry was stoically keeping her tears in her eyes, as her voice came out almost broken and tearful, "Win-win?!"

He launched into his rapid-fire once again, "First case: you get to go to the imaginary place that my Mummy and the Bible calls hell. It's described as burning with everlasting flames. How? Must be some combustible material, perhaps fuel? Alcohol is a perfectly good fuel with a very high calorific value. So there's going to be a lot of alcohol once you reach there. Plus, what are the chances that you won't get to share it with your daddy dear in there? Maybe watch some telly with him, order some takeout in there?"

"Mr. Holmes," John began threateningly, this time anger slowly seeping into his voice at his frustrating sister and his impossible student, but Sherlock overrode him, "Second case: You get to keep alcohol, plus you get to sleep with other women. Your wife will get a break out of taking care of pathetic you and get to sleep with others-"

"Get out!" she growled, her voice becoming animalistic, while angry tears leaked out of her eyes, "Fucking get out!"

"Might want to reconsider about inserting the completely meaningless 'fucking'," Sherlock began, before he was dragged out of the room by John. An angry... no, a very, very angry John.

"Why do you have to spoil everything?" he tried his best not to shout at Sherlock, who looked infuriatingly confused as to why John was treating him like that. He had only helped her by confronting her in such a headstrong manner, "John?!"

"Don't you ever dare call me John!" he hissed, "Do you have any idea what you just did to my sister? Now she's only going to go and have some more only to forget your words! You know, I-I thought, I thought you could be serious, for a moment there, I actually thought you could help... Never mind, I don't know why I'm telling you any of this, you're just an insensitive prick, that's what you are!" And before he could open his mouth to say something in his defence, John stormed away inside, clearly to console the sobs that were coming from his sister.

Sherlock felt his stomach dropping when he heard that. He had only tried to help, how could John call him insensitive? Did he not care about him? Had he not shown that enough already? He was willing to sit through the boring intervention, he was willing to confront his sister even though he didn't even know her, he was willing to go through his own bad and suppressed and hurtful memories of the interventions that his parents had staged for him, that Mycroft had forced him into, of all his life before uni. He went through that, because that's what you were supposed to do, isn't it? He had read that in one of those articles that you have to sacrifice things for the people you care about. You've got to go through pain for people you care about.

How could John call him insensitive?

_Caring is not an advantage._

He swallowed, and blocked his ears out from the familiar mellow, soothing tenor voice that belonged only to John, and walked out of there. He knew Harry was going to get better, because if that had worked on him, it surely would work on any other lesser mortal. He closed the door of the car behind him, gulped down some water after having spoken so much, and drove out of there, trying to suppress the dull throbbing in his chest.

He remembered the damned thank-you speech that he had to help Molly with. His fingers reached out to text her, asking her to meet him in his flat in twenty minutes.

* * *

Harry had locked herself into her room following Sherlock's offending speech. Clara had continuously banged on the door tearfully, and had barricaded anyone from confronting Harry when she came out, that is, even if she did. She forbade John and Ben from breaking the door open, which would only cause Harry to go into a rage.

They all backed away into the sitting room when they heard Harry opening the door, waiting for the verdict, although they knew what was going to happen. They were all surprised to hear only soft sobs, and no tantrums. John heard the soothing tones which obviously belonged to Clara, and after sometime, she came out, "She's willing."

John's mouth fell open. Harry was willing to go into rehab? After all that shit?! The rest of the intervention had made no effect on her...

And suddenly, Clara moved across the room and clasped John's hands, thanking him tearfully. John only caught a name, 'Holmes'. Sherlock... she was thanking him for bringing Sherlock along, as only his words had made her want to deflect the otherwise inevitable future, wanting to deflect the break in Clara and her marriage. Only his harsh words had unexpectedly made an effect on her. Of course, they would. Harry never responded to tender words.

"Oh Lord," John groaned, instantly regretting his words to Holmes, and he rushed out of there, into the street as Jeanette watched him incredulously, seeing her boyfriend run away from her to a boy he hadn't even known for three months and the one he already trusted like he had trusted no one. John hated himself, he truly hated himself. He always pushed Holmes away, even when he was trying to help, even when Holmes was the one who made his life bearable. He was gone. His car wasn't there.

"Oh no, Sherlock... Taxi!"

He banged his head painfully on the door as he hurried to get into the cab, "Damn it!"

"Where?"

John remembered it. Holmes had shown him where he lived, when they were coming to Clara's house, "Baker street. Make it fast."

* * *

**Songlist:**

**Van Halen-Hot for Teacher**

**Elton John- Teacher I Need You**

**AC/DC-Highway To Hell**

**Rufus Wainwright-Art Teacher (I didn't know about this one, I just googled it out :P)**


	11. Chapter 11

**"Actually I was hoping I could talk with Mr. Holmes in private."**

**They get to know each other better, in a typical romantic setting, of course. Not a date, don't worry :D**

**Chapter got long again... a massive 7K + words, I know it sounds daunting, but I was bored. And I know I'm frustrating you with all that two steps ahead, one step backwards,, but please bear with me :)**

* * *

Molly was terrible at writing speeches, Sherlock concluded, but at least telling her off for the littlest of things helped keep his mind off John's words.

"Molly, for God's sake, you don't go by the "textbook format" that the English teacher taught you for your GCSEs. Learn to improvise!"

"Sherlock, you're the one who's not writing properly!" She shook her head at the generous amount of scratching on her notebook, and then at Sherlock's notebook, which was completely blank, "Sherlock! You've got to try at least."

"Molly, I don't want to discuss this anymore. You're giving the goddamned speech! I'm not taking any awards, I-"

"Sherlock, you did the work, it was all your idea! You completely deserve the award. I'm not taking it for myself."

"Molly, it was a joint effort-"

"Exactly. So, either you're going to go up the stage and take it, or we're both going. You can choose any one."

Sherlock did not back down, but he knew that this was Molly's most imperious tone, and that if he didn't obey her, bad things could happen to him. He shrugged his shoulders, "I hate speeches, Molly. This is the hardest and the most daunting task I've ever encountered."

Molly smiled and tore away the paper on which she was previously writing, "I know. That's why I'm making you do it."

Sherlock collapsed into the couch and hugged his legs to his chest and curling into a tight ball, grumbling to himself. It was only once or twice that Molly did a take at him and noticed the sadness on his face when he thought that she couldn't see him. She could think of only one reason, "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Are things okay between... you and Dr. Watson?" said she, remembering the meeting in the car park. She felt like she was stepping a line there. Sherlock would surely tell her if she needed to know about it, won't he?

"Yeah, never been better."

She knew that this was sarcasm. She knew the tone Sherlock's voice took when he was being sarcastic. But the reply also meant that he didn't want to talk about it, so she left it at that. She trusted him to tell her about it whenever he thought that she needed to know about it. She just hoped that it won't be too late when he told her... and she honestly didn't know what 'too late' meant.

After sometime, there was a noise downstairs. Sherlock heard the main door being opened, by someone, maybe Mrs. Hudson. He heard steps coming up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson, judging by the footfall.

"Sherlock?! Is your doorbell not working again? There's a man at the door saying that his name is John."

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the name. John? What was John doing here? And why was he introducing himself as John, and not as Dr. Watson as he always kept telling him pompously? Had he come to insult him some more?

Molly's eyes narrowed, wondering what Dr. Watson was doing there.

"I don't want to see him," Sherlock declared self-importantly, curling further into the couch. Molly feared he might almost collapse into himself.

"No, it's okay," came a mellow voice from behind Mrs. Hudson, the tenor that Sherlock had recorded in his Mind Palace as only belonging to his professor, the man who called him an insensitive prick.

John came up behind her, and Sherlock did not know whether happiness shone in his features or guilt. But whatever, John had never seemed so alluring to him, not even in his classroom. His fingers gave an almost uncontrollable twitch as the man appeared in front of him. For one second, one cursed second, Sherlock wanted to push that man away backwards, towards and into his bedroom, close the door behind him and just kiss his thin lips till they became swollen, reddened and delectable, and push his tongue into his mouth, which always remained ajar, for some reason he wished he could deduce.

Sherlock mentally cringed at the idea. Those things were done by lovers, not a student sulking at a teacher. An idiotic teacher who had no idea about how interventions were supposed to go with stubborn alcoholics like Harriet. An idiotic teacher who was always hell bent on making Sherlock leave the lecture room. And yet, an idiotic teacher who had proved himself to be two levels above the average intelligence of most human beings.

No. He was supposed to be angry at John, and sulking as well. And John had come to insult him some more, of course. Maybe his speech had backfired, instead of sending Harriet Watson straight towards rehabilitation...

Mrs. Hudson sent a confused look in Molly's direction. She just rolled her eyes at Sherlock, and gestured to her that yes they knew him, and that they were gonna talk. She nodded and left, leaving John standing at the door. Molly attempted a weak smile, "Come in, professor," and she sent a glare in Sherlock's direction.

"Actually..." John did a funny thing with his upper lip, licking it and then biting it, as if uncertain, maybe even nervous. Sherlock took a moment to examine him. He had come away in a hurry, banged his head against the roof of a vehicle, probably a taxi because he was short (in which case, roof left him with only one option: the London cab) and because he had to take a cab if he was really in so much hurry. Maybe... Harry had run away, and now he needed him to track her down. Well, no thank you. He wasn't going to help him, even if the opportunity could merit him a conversation with John.

"...I was hoping I could talk with Mr. Holmes in private."

Molly's eyes narrowed, and then they settled on Sherlock, as if inferring something vastly apart from the truth. She nodded and she left, "I'll be with Mrs. Hudson, alright?"

Sherlock hummed in response. Now he felt really vulnerable, and he had no idea why. John was the one who should feel vulnerable, with a student in a small sitting room alone, with a student who fancied him. John stood facing him, studying him, his hands behind him, posture stiff and attentive, while his face was waned with lines of tension and guilt, and yet his shoulders weren't, they were quite relaxed, contrary to the premature wrinkles on his face. He saw the side of John's mouth quirk up, mostly in humour. He wondered why. And then he reasoned that it must be because he had curled up a little too tight against the arm of his couch. He released his legs from their imprisonment by his wiry arms, and stood up, not acknowledging his presence at all.

"So..." John started, shifting his weight awkwardly to one foot, and closed his eyes as he looked down at his shoes and realised that he hadn't done his laces properly, "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently and put his notebook down on the table in front of him with a loud smack, "Of course I can!" he snapped, "I've got ears, and some blessed senses unlike some people like yourself!"

He bit his tongue and looked across at the professor's triumphant face. John had done that merely to extract a response out of him. No one could do that, certainly not any male. Molly could manage that only because she always sounded so pitiful when she tried to attract his attention.

"I know. I am sorry, I shouldn't have shouted at you."

"Go away!" he snarled, his voice full of venom that wasn't his. John flinched at the ferocity of his tone.

"Sher-"

"Molly!" Sherlock called out loudly, shutting John up and making him look sharply across at him with incredulity. This student who always wanted to spend some time alone with him, and now he was shutting him out. She came up almost hurriedly, her footsteps falling urgently on the stairs. Her unassuming figure appeared behind John, peeking at his outstretched figure, as if afraid of what she might see.

"Kindly lead Professor Watson out of here," said he, trying to sound nonchalant while John watched him disbelievingly.

"Sherl-"

"Go away or else I'll have to throw you out of here!" he almost roared at him, immeasurable amounts of anger rising in him, not at John, at himself, at the lack of ability to suppress memories. But it really wasn't his fault. Most of the memories that he had indexed away had a visual trigger, and the intervention was one of them. He had hoped that by helping Harriet Watson, he would be able to find some sort of peace within himself, to finally accept the fact that his druggie days had finally ended up helping someone else by sending them to a rehabilitation facility, but it had done just the opposite. Moreover it had done irreparable damage to whatever he had with John.

When he raised his head, John was gone and replaced by the sight of Molly sitting across him, almost ready to leave.

"Oh... erm," she started very intelligently, "I'm leaving now, anyway. I was starting to wonder if you had had a stroke, having hunched over for more than an hour."

And with that, and a bye-bye and a mention of the lasagne that she had taken out of his fridge, she was off too. Thankfully, she had made no mention of the raised voices he had used on his professor. Sherlock moved across to the dining table, choosing to step over the smaller table to take the shortest route to the kitchen. He felt uncharacteristically hungry, as if he had run a hundred miles at a stretch.

He took the half-finished lasagne out of the oven and chewed on it, while he rushed down the Infinite Ladder and down to the deepest levels of his memory palace, towards the room where he had locked the memory of the last intervention that Mycroft had staged for him...

* * *

"And so, as this illustration would make it clear to all..."

John drawled on mindlessly in his class on Monday, in the class right after lunch. He had seen Holmes on Thursday the last time, in his flat where he had shouted at him, and John had backed away, knowing that privacy was much more required for him than his apology. He had peacefully carted Harry off with the hope of seeing a reformed woman after whatever duration of time she required.

Jeanette had had a very bad argument with him, demanding to know what exactly his relations were with this Mr. Holmes. John had shouted back, confronting her with how she had cheated upon him the last time. She had then concluded that John really was seeing his student and threatened to bring his life down, she had abstained from sex till John answered her properly, and John had been glad and worried in exasperated amounts. Glad because he just couldn't see her that way anymore, and anxious because the sex was the only thing that could distract him from Holmes. At any rate, that was true weeks ago, not anymore. And he wasn't going to try and think about why, because trying to forget was just another excuse to remember.

Holmes was slouched against the chair, outwardly still the same student he had been the last Monday. John wished to know what was happening in his mind. He also desperately wished for Holmes to try some sort of mischief in his class, only so that he could find an excuse to make him stay behind, and try and talk to him and apologize. But Holmes was as silent as an abandoned country graveyard. No one could see that there was something wrong with him, because most assumed that this was one of his sulking days, but John knew better, and beside Holmes, Ms. Hooper knew even better. He liked that girl; she was sweet, and she had muttered a thousand apologies in place of Holmes for whatever unnamed felony he had supposedly committed when she showed him out unwillingly, while pleading with John that this incident should not induce him to award her with lesser grades than she deserved. John simply laughed it off, promising her that he wouldn't do anything like that. He wanted to but he couldn't bring himself to tell her that Holmes was right in his place, like he always was, and that she shouldn't have to apologize when he was the one at fault.

John could not understand certain things about him. Holmes wasn't exactly very excited about helping others, and yet he was always there for John, no matter what. He cared for him, and yet when he came to apologize, Holmes had practically banished him from his residence, acted in a way John had never seen him act. He seemed withdrawn, and in anguish, not just sulking like he did many-a-times. Holmes threw sulks around generously all the time, but this one was different.

The class ended, and John watched helplessly as Holmes steered Ms. Hooper out of there, despite her protests that seemed like she wanted him to sort it all out with him, but he seemed adamant as John heard him declare something about the way her beanie was developing grease stains upon it, and that she really needed to stop going to some auto shop and start studying more seriously. John's lips curled in disappointment as he looked down at the notes for his next lecture. He nodded to himself, and settled down.

* * *

It was raining torrents, characteristic of mid-November as John sat at the deserted bus stop, waiting for one. He really had to cut down on his fancy spending and on dinners with Jeanette, to try and return her to good humour, although he wasn't sure why he should do that. Abbott had already left, and John, not having enough for a cab, just waited there, thanking whatever deity cared to listen to him for his waterproof bag. He decided that from the next time, he would have an umbrella with him, or at least a raincoat of some sorts.

Before he could think further, a car stopped in front of the bus stop, or to be more precise, in front of him. The window rolled down, revealing Holmes who leaned out of the window, his nose wrinkling adorably as raindrops touched his face, and slowly drenched the sleeve of his white spotless shirt. Ms. Hooper's exasperated but secretly pleased face peeked out from somewhere behind him, but John's complete attention was on the boy in the foreground.

"Mind if I join you?" he yelled over the rain as the water ran down his now untamed curls, the hair that had become longer than it used to be. Molly had told him to keep it like that, she had said that it suited him. Sherlock had simply rolled his eyes, because he remembered that her last boyfriend (Tony? Tommy? Toby? something... no. Ten-name rule to consider) had a similar hairstyle, and just because Molly liked that sort of hairstyle, he wasn't going to keep it like that, was he? But when he had accidentally spotted himself in his reflection against the mantelpiece mirror, he discovered that it actually suited him as opposed to the short hair that Mrs. Hudson insisted on.

"Not in the slightest," John replied, and before he could say anything else, the car was speeding away, and Holmes shielded his head with his oversized palms and ducked into the bus stop beside John, this time his demeanour not angry or furious at all. He seemed relaxed, and quite content with himself, like he always was. There was no one in the street, save for some vehicles speeding by. Of course, there would be no soul, not in the rain gone wild upon the face of the city, only John and Sherlock, completely isolated, free to talk. For a fleeting and a hopeless second, he had thought that Holmes was going to give him another lift, and he sighed thankfully when he didn't. He'd rather not go back to Jeanette, not when he had to apologize to him first.

John's bus came, and left. He did not care. The next one was fifteen minutes later.

His eyes tracked themselves upon Holmes' lithe figure sitting beside him, at the loose white casual shirt, and his sky blue jeans. He sat at a distance from where he could only feel the heat emanating from his body. He wondered where his bookbag was, maybe he had left it with Ms. Hooper. Holmes looked good, as a bloke, even in this simple common outfit. Not that John thought of him as otherwise. Just two blokes comparing looks, like friends... like teacher and student, like a student who fancied his teacher...

No, he stopped himself. He was not going to think ahead. He told himself, he was not gay. And he wasn't attracted to Holmes, not at all. He was just intrigued, and he just wanted him to graduate with the best marks and get on with his life, and do something worthwhile with that massive intellect of his. Just like he had helped Harry sort her life.

The rain was the finest example for the real din caused by the noise of all that they weren't saying. He watched Holmes take a lighter out of his pocket, and a box of cigarettes. His fingers wrapped around one of the cigarettes that he extracted out of it, before he placed the little smoke machine between his lips, and lit it while his eyes stared in the distance, his brows furrowed, his eyes narrowed with the knowledge that John was watching him, fascinated and scandalised by his actions in equal measures.

"I'd say _don't smoke_, but then I have very good reason to suspect that you won't listen to me," John spoke finally.

"True," said Sherlock, blowing an artful plume of smoke upwards, forming rings on the cold air around them, and taking the cigarette between his fingers, "Want some?"

John considered his words for some time, "You being formal now?"

"Well, being informal doesn't suit your tastes," said he, blowing another plume of smoke after having sucked it out of his long throat, "I'm just sticking with safe ground."

Sherlock caught him staring at the tendons in his neck, which John hastily coughed away, feigning discomfort due to the cigarette smoke, "What's your... excuse this time, professor?" said he, throwing him a deadly smirk, "Anatomical interest, perhaps?"

John looked away, trying not to flush with embarrassment and cooking up a silly excuse, "You've just got a little something over there," he indicated to his own neck and then to the imaginary spot on Sherlock's neck, "Anyway-"

"Harriet is your sister?" Sherlock blurted out, causing John's mind to fumble helplessly at the sudden change in subject.

"Er - yes, I thought you saw her that day."

"Harry was supposed to be your brother!" he eyed him suspiciously.

John backed away a little, "No, Harriet is my sister, I've been checking that for the last twenty eight years of my life."

Sherlock gave him a quick, one of his rare half-smiles. John looked away and then remembered something, "Yes, how did you know that I had a sibling at all?"

"Phone," he pointed out, "Give me your phone, and I'll show you."

John frowned, and then drew his phone out and proceeded to unlock it, but Sherlock gave a throaty chuckle, "Don't bother."

He reached out, and John gasped at the warmth of his fingers, which felt like fire against his own cold ones. Sherlock drew the pattern easily, on it, and unlocked the screen at once, though John had no idea how he knew that or how his phone would give away the fact that he had a sister... or brother as he claimed. It looked like Sherlock had found what he was looking for and smiled triumphantly, "Explain this."

John put his specs back on and peered at the screen, at the phone log. Along the names, there were lots of 'Sherlock's in there. John tried not to look guilty at that, "About my sister, Mr. Holmes." But Sherlock overrode him smoothly.

"I knew you had saved my number, but I couldn't help wondering about the way you respond whenever you pick up, 'Hello, who's this?' or whenever you answer my texts... You've got my number saved under 'Sherlock' in the phone, and yet you elect to call me 'Holmes'... Why's that?"

He waited sometime for John to respond, but when he found out that he didn't, he simply carried on.

"As for your sister, I've noticed that you text someone a lot, even on the first day. Now, since you're trying to be a very sincere professor, it's obvious that the texting is not by your choice. That narrows it down to girlfriend or family, but this is the sort of text that you'd rather not ignore, and yet you don't reply a lot. Means some sort of updates. Therefore girlfriend is definitely ruled out, because anyway, I think she came back to you after your first day. So family takes a much more important scene here. You're not married, and you don't usually text them back, like I said, so you're not a single father. Not mum, of course, because mums of the 80s prefer to talk and hear the voice of their kids. Sentiment. Therefore father or sibling, and since it's important enough for you to not ignore, not members of the extended family. Now, updates on what? Perhaps, a... chronic problem, like drinking, or maybe narcotics. Unlikely your sibling will call you on your first day if your father's got a drinking problem, so it's got to be a sibling drinking problem, and that too from someone whose concern is partial towards your sibling than you. Either wife, or husband of your sibling..."

Sherlock showed him the scratches around the power connection of the phone, "I happened to see these, and that supported my alcoholic sibling theory. And the sibling's kept it carefully. This is three-year old model by the way, suggesting it's a gift from someone special, pointing to wife or husband again. Husband won't gift a phone, he'd go for a ring, or necklace something similar, because this phone was expensive, he should've been able to afford a diamond ring as well suggesting that this gift is from a woman. To a husband, that was statistically more likely, and considering your 'I'm not gay' parade. But now I observe that this indeed belonged to a woman."

It took John some time to recover himself from the rapid fire, "H-How?"

"The scratch marks. A man's hands, although shaky, would've made far deeper scratches than a woman's. Of course, the phone was at a distance from me back then, so I won't blame myself," he stated self-importantly.

Sherlock dropped the stub of finished cigarette, grinding it under his feet, and then proceeded to take out another one. John stared at that in disbelief.

"That's your second cigarette," he exclaimed.

"Yes."

He looked away, shaking his head. Sherlock was seriously impossible sometimes, "Erm... listen, I'm sorry."

Sherlock did not reply. He simply drank the smoke into his lungs, and watched a raindrop make its way from the roof of the bus stop to the cement ground.

"Harry, she accepted rehabilitation. We got her into there on Saturday."

"Good for you."

Now John was getting really annoyed. He was saying sorry to Sherlock like a good boy and he wasn't taking him seriously at all. He reached out, and took the cigarette from between his lips, and threw it away on the road. The rain extinguished it, and Sherlock made a soft impatient noise, and drew out another cigarette, and placed it between his lips. But this time, he didn't light it. When he found John watching his actions with a confused face, he explained patiently with a playful smirk, "Go ahead, take this one out of my _lips_ too!"

John couldn't help but blush like a schoolgirl in response. For God's sake, he was an adult, he thought. He looked away to hide his face from him. Holmes was literally the biggest pervert he had ever met, "I'm trying to apologize, you know. If you don't - "

"Oh, right," he crossed his arms over his chest, taking the cigarette out of his lips and depositing it back into his pocket, "sorry for interrupting."

"Okay, look, I know I shouted at you, and I shouldn't have done that - "

"Pfft!" and he yawned, "Sorry's are boring! Either way, you're going to have to repay the favour back. You could start from now."

John's eyes narrowed as Sherlock rose from his place, "What do you mean?"

"You could do something that I ask you to," said he, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, "Instead of wasting your breath on an apology which I know I'm going to sleep through anyway..."

"I'm not going out with you, if that's what you mean!" John said at once, and Sherlock laughed.

"It's interesting how your mind automatically travelled to that very thing, you know. But no, I'm not going to ask you that. I won't make you do anything which you don't seem to want to, however much you deny..."

"Then?"

"Well," Sherlock looked around at the torrents of rain pouring down on the streets, "You could accompany me home, keep me company, perhaps?"

John thought Sherlock was crazy, which he probably was, "Accompany you home? Through this rain?!"

"Or I could accompany you home, whichever's farther," said he with an impish grin, "And yes, walking. Through this rain."

"You'll get all drenched," he exclaimed, and Sherlock looked at him blankly.

"Yes, I think walking through the rain involves getting drenched."

"You might get sick," John pointed out.

"I know."

John rolled his eyes, and stuck his arm out to measure just how hard the raindrops hit his skin. Too hard.

"I don't want to get sick."

Sherlock yawned, "I'll send you flowers and chocolates, come on."

Chocolates. That instigated a completely different memory in John's mind. A very dirty one, and he tried not to associate Holmes with it. And before he could protest, Sherlock had dragged him out of there and into the rain, feeling the little drops attacking his skin brutally, "Mr. Holmes-?!"

But Sherlock paid no attention to it. He simply tilted his head upwards, "I think my residence is farther, come on."

John watched him, the streams of water running elegantly down his pale skin like sweat, only too freely. He did not attempt to go back under the shade. It had been ages since he had been out in the rain, and he liked it, and Holmes clearly knew it, but how, he had no idea. John had always loved the rain, the feeling of raindrops hitting his skin even when he was a kid. He couldn't remember the time when he had begun to ensure that he carried an umbrella along with him during the rainy months.

They stared at each other.

Sherlock looked down at him, his nose crinkling as he rubbed his eyes, smiling at John as he came closer. John could see every line in Sherlock's face, his pale, keen features with unnerving clarity. He cast an eye down his slim figure, at his shirt. He tried to convince himself his breath had hitched only because of the sense of excitement that the rain caused, at the feeling of something he hadn't done for years, and not because of Sherlock's now almost transparent shirt clinging to his chest and his torso.

"Let's walk," said he, "I've always wanted to get a little sick."

"Why?"

"I get an excuse to stay at home," he replied, "My housekeeper takes care of me, makes sure all my laundry is done, for a change."

John laughed, "So why do you come at all?"

"Attendance," he shrugged. "And a certain professor who says that he isn't gay, but I know for a fact that he is into me."

John turned to look at him again, his heart galloping in his chest, just as Sherlock turned too, taking John's hand, and smiling that fatal smile. He looked down, at his chest, his gaze flying past his nipples, and then resting on his navel. Being shirtless wouldn't have made any difference. He felt heat rising helplessly in his ears just by thinking about him without a shirt. He looked away, at a tree, where a couple of birds were huddled together, seeking warmth in each other's presence. John had to admit, he did feel rather cold even if his ears were burning, and Sherlock's presence beside him felt rather too warm. His fingers gave an almost unnoticeable twitch, and he looked away from those birds.

"I'm not into you," he replied.

He could've just got another Ph. D in denial.

"How did you know I was talking about you?" Sherlock asked, smiling enticingly. John decided that he needed to change the topic for conversation, and then noticed that they hadn't even gone ten metres from that bus stop. With that speed, they might never be able to reach their destination.

"How's your preparation for the midterm exam coming on?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh, come on! Finally we get to go on a date, and you ask me about my exam preparations? How lame can you be, _professor_?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Holmes," said John, trying his best not to laugh, trying his best not to feel the clamminess of his palms when it was already wet from the rain, and trying his best not to feel the stirrings in his stomach when he saw how toned Sherlock's chest was, "I'm not on a date with you."

Sherlock fixed him with confused eyes, "Why not? We are spending time together outside our usual lives, we like each other and we're clearly enjoying each other's presence... Yes, there might be an absence of a restaurant or a movie theatre, but we don't really need anything to set the mood, do we?"

This time, John couldn't deny the logic in his words, "Nevertheless, we are not on a date-"

"So you admit that you do like me?" Sherlock asked him sharply as if he had been waiting for it, and frankly, John was now beginning to grow tired of his mind games. He changed the subject once again.

"You... you've never met my sister... so how did you know what she needed?"

This time, Sherlock dropped all his smart-arse smirks, and for the first time, John saw his genuine smile, and a sad one, "Well... let's just say I've been to many interventions..."

John nodded. So Sherlock did have an underlying helpful nature. He maintained that opinion until Sherlock spoke further.

"... All of them my own."

He undid the left shirt cuff and drew it back. John let out a small, inaudible gasp, and extended his fingers, running them over his forearm, half out of fascination, half out of surprise. It did not occur to him even once what he was doing. Sherlock watched them thoughtfully, no trace of emotion on his face, not even at the feeling of John's fingers trailing upon them, and that made John's position even more intimidating.

There were innumerable puncture marks on Sherlock's sinewy forearm, dotting and scarring his otherwise unblemished pearlescent skin, a reminder of his junkie days.

"You... you were-" John started, not able to form words properly. Of all people, he had never expected Holmes to be a previous drug user, but perhaps it made sense. Holmes could be seeking solace from the ever-present boredom which threatened to consume his brilliant mind. Sherlock, contrary to what he had expected, was completely unabashed about letting John know this little detail about him. A small part of him actually wanted John to know everything that there was about him, but he wondered if that was even possible.

"Yes. I quit my habits and got myself enrolled in university after I somehow managed to complete secondary school. Molly helped me get clean, she - she helped me through... I'm thoroughly indebted to her," he admitted meekly.

"She sounds like a good friend."

Sherlock smiled fondly and withdrew his arm, and they simply walked, not in awkward silence anymore, until John broke it, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't know, that you... that you, you know. And I'm indebted to you. I had not even expected that Harry would agree anyway, but..."

Sherlock didn't reply. He simply walked, seemingly content at spending some alone time with John away from uni. Another bus went through. John didn't care anymore, even if he was finished with his apology. A vehicle ran past too, and John thought how odd they must be looking, walking through heavy rain silently, with their hands just brushing momentarily as they strolled through the almost deserted street. John allowed himself to glance once or twice at him, and felt his heart swell foolishly inside of him every time. He didn't care if Holmes knew, because he did obviously. He always knew. John felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Holmes was right, he always was. He really didn't mind spending time with him. In fact, he liked it. He let himself pretend that he was actually on a romantic date with this one very brilliant _male_ student.

And then the word 'student' came to his mind, making John wonder what could've happened if they had met in an alternate universe.

_If I wasn't your student, and if you weren't my professor, would you have gone out with me?_

Definitely not. He was still a male. And almost ten years younger. Holmes might not be bound by the considerations of morality, but John was. For his logical mind, things might be as simple as two people liking each other, but not for John. He had somehow managed to bring his life back on track after his junkie days, and John was definitely not going to endanger his life further by becoming an unwelcome distraction for his brilliant mind. After all, what was he? Just a teacher.

They were now somewhere near Oxford Street. John didn't know why, but he had a powerful temptation to break the silence which always managed to fall upon them.

"So, what made you leave the campus so late?"

Sherlock arose from the oblivion, "Mr. Hope. Made us practice out the speeches."

"Ah yes, the upcoming award ceremony. Congratulations. Your organic chemistry professor was telling me about yours and Ms. Hooper's work. Said that he hadn't seen anything like it."

"Did he tell you what it is about?" Sherlock asked, trying not to come across as excited but John failed to perceive that anyway.

"He ran away before I could ask him. What is it about?"

Sherlock looked away, brushing the excess water away from his skin, allowing the now retreating rainclouds to shower him with a light drizzle, "You'll find out anyway. And I don't want you to run away thinking I'm some sort of freak."

"You're not a freak," John remonstrated, "Any of us would be very lucky to have a mind like yours."

Sherlock chose not to answer that, instead replying with, "You'll be coming?"

"Yeah, of course. I'm a teacher, I'll have to be there, won't I?"

"Yes, I suppose, but I'm very sorry I can't ask you to be my consort," said he, smiling wryly, "I'm taking Molly, because I really don't want to go up there alone, and I don't think she's going to bring her stupid boyfriend..."

John rolled his eyes, "You won't have to. I'm taking Jeanette," and then he bit his tongue. He shouldn't have said that.

Sherlock's eyes widened momentarily, and then he subsided back with an amused smile, "Jeanette... she's smart and clever, and an interesting woman," his tone was actually appreciative, "I can see why you like her."

John frowned. Sherlock... what? He didn't know why he felt this absurd need to explain to him, even if he was the one who was older (although Sherlock did make him feel like he was several years younger). Holmes should mean nothing to him... apart from the fact that he was the reason Harry was now getting better (hopefully) in a rehab.

"This should've... you should never have met her," John shook his head, "I never intended for you to-"

"Why?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed, one arm going up to brush his hair out of his eyes, "Why did you not want me to meet her?"

Why was that, John had not idea. And how come Holmes, of all people liked her was puzzling. But then, Holmes himself was a puzzle.

"I don't know," he replied sheepishly.

"Don't you like her?"

John heaved a heavy breath, "I don't think your question is appropriate at all, Mr. Holmes."

"I don't think staring at my almost bare chest is appropriate as well, professor."

"I wasn't staring," John croaked, watching the curve of his mouth, the way it moved whenever he said something, and then he resolutely looked away.

Smiling roguishly, they walked together, their hands still touching, and all Sherlock could think about was that square inch of feverish skin; his face dropped as he saw Baker Street approaching. John glanced at his watch. It was almost six-thirty.

"By the way, John... did you figure out the cat puzzle yet? It's simple enough, but we do need to be reminded it once every time."

Cat purred a lot when no one looked and then someone kicked it and it stopped purring and died... how was that supposed to make any sense?

"Is that a very poor attempt at psychology?" John countered back, "Because I'd rather - "

"No, of course not... but anyway, come on in," said he, trying to sound inviting, "I did kick you out of my house that day."

John considered it for a moment, and then shook his head, not trusting himself with Holmes in one room, not after how his shirt clung to every inch of his toned torso, "I'd rather not, Jeanette might be home... I, erm..."

Sherlock smiled sadly, wondering whether to say goodbye, or... do anything that involved not succumbing to the temptation of leaning in and closing the two inches between them, while stroking gently the base of his neck, and guiding him against the wall...

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes. Study hard, and congratulations again."

With that, John turned around, and walked away. If anyone could get a grasp on his mental health, they'd say that he was falling for him.

Sherlock turned too, and walked into 221B, and was greeted by the most unpleasant surprise upstairs: Molly and Mrs. Hudson, looking maddeningly excited as if he had uttered his first words. But as soon as they saw Sherlock completely drenched to his skin, and his chest almost visible, Molly looked away almost instantly and rushed inside to grab a towel from the bath room, and one of his dressing gowns lying in one corner of the room. Sherlock groaned into his palms, knowing that he won't be able to cut out Mrs. Hudson's banter anymore.

"Sherlock, why didn't you tell me that you were going out with Dr. Watson?!"

"Oh my goodness, such a lovely man, Molly told me all about him-"

"I thought you were going to tell me, but I found out anyway-"

"Here, love, I made you some hot tea, and just this once. I'm not your housekeeper-"

"Sherlock, you've got to tell me! I'm so excited! I want to hear every-"

"Shut up!" Sherlock boomed, not able to take the idiosyncrasy of two ladies at once, "I'm going in for a shower."

And with that, he retreated to the bathroom, shed his clothes, and stood under the shower, going back to how it felt being with John under the rain, his mind brimming with that sense of yearning and the hormonal desires. Sherlock knew that it was quite late for him to experience crushes, if at all it could be dubbed such a laughably mild label as crush. He knew that he just couldn't skive off, not with his elderly housekeeper and his female best friend in the adjacent rooms, but the temptation was almost too much.

He turned the shower off, and dried himself, getting into a fresh-looking pair of pyjamas and t-shirt, and only to find himself face to face with an expectant Mrs. Hudson and Molly in the sitting room. He tried to avoid their eyes as he sipped the still hot tea peacefully, and then groaned when he saw that Mrs. Hudson had taken away his Skull again.

"Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" Sherlock snapped when he saw her mouth open.

"Oh, it's alright, dear," she replied so cheerfully that it felt almost infuriating to him, "Now tell me about this lovely young man. What did you talk about?"

Sherlock felt sick to the core. He was not a girl who was going to tell them everything about a... whatever John was to him now, "Molly, midterm exams, in case you have forgotten-!"

"But Sherlock-"

"Mrs. Hudson, if I fail, it will be completely your fault. Is that okay by you?!"

She rose, startled, as Sherlock held open the door for her, "I really am going to have a talk with your mother."

"By all means, she understands very little as it is." And he shut the door behind him. This time, Molly did not try and ask him, apart from a tentative 'Sherlock?' which always worked like a charm on him, but today it didn't.

A last resort then, "I'm sad Sherlock, tell me a story."

* * *

"So... you're not going out with him?" she confirmed, a little disappointed, mostly for her friend.

She was very surprised when Sherlock her told about how consistently Dr. Watson had been rejecting him. It was clear even to her that Dr. Watson was indeed attracted to Sherlock as well, but she found it very hard and complicated to explain to Sherlock why he was doing so. He was completely blank when it came to such matters, and disconcertingly so, especially when he looked at her with those infuriating puppy-dog eyes.

"I honestly don't know what I would do Sherlock, if I were in your place... I'm not even sure if I'd do that-"

Damn Molly!

And now Sherlock was going to pester her every day, so she tried to change the topic, "You know that award ceremony, how about we get you something nice to wear, you know?"

Instantly Sherlock moved away, grumbling to himself incoherently, and Molly remembered it, "Yeah, maybe we should do that, go shopping or something..."

The bad thing about Molly Hooper's friendship was that she treated Sherlock as one of her girlfriends and one of her cats, "Are you out of your mind, Molly? I'm not going shopping with you! Shopping is boring!"

"Hey, you promised," she protested, "you said once that you'd do whatever I asked you to do."

She waited for recollection to dawn upon Sherlock's face, and then he strictly denied it, "I don't remember anything of that sort."

"Remember that day, Sherlock, when you broke into my flat just to analyse whether you had a heart problem? I listened to you, in exchange for whatever I wanted you to do!"

Sherlock curled into himself, while Molly rose triumphantly, "Marvellous, we're going for shopping, and not chemicals!" She thought she should mention it, "Actual shopping. And we'll need your brother's credit card. Unlimited balance, isn't that the term which you used?"

Sherlock simply sunk his head into his lap and groaned.

* * *

**In short, I was getting bored of Jeanette, so I'm planning to make John break things off with her in the next chapter.**

en → en

Sherlock'


	12. Chapter 12

**Initially, I wanted to make John drunk in here, and make him do intensely wild things around London and make the chapter humorous and wild, but remembering that he was a teacher who had insanely high moral principles, and trying to stay true to his character, this is what came out instead.**

**Again, I don't live in UK, so if there are any errors in some places, please accept my sincerest apologies :-( I'm just assuming that Mathletes exist in UK. That being said, moving on...**

* * *

Molly's fashion sense might be mortifying when it came to women's clothes, but Sherlock had to admit, she had rather fine taste when it came to men's clothing.

Especially suits.

Molly had dragged him over to somewhere in Knightsbridge, and Sherlock realised that she hadn't been joking about the unlimited balance on Mycroft's credit card. It had been the most tedious thing that he had done in his entire life: suit and tie shopping with Molly Hooper, and once or twice, he had thought of playing truant on her and abandoning her in one of those stupidly posh shopping centres. And then he had remembered that they had come by Molly's car, and he didn't have much cash on himself (Molly had taken care of that), and so he let himself be dragged around by her.

Truth be told, he found out that he had an eye for colour, and his taste in women's clothing was much, much better than Molly's. Therefore, to Molly's disappointment, and to Sherlock's utmost delight, the shopping spree had gotten over in a mere three hours. Although, he hadn't expected that it would take as long as three hours. Over and over again, to Sherlock's extreme annoyance, he had been prodded, poked and measured, and most of them admired his body and his physique as though he wasn't there. One of those salesgirls had been completely besotted by him, and Molly had been laughing all the time as she called that particular salesgirl to measure him up, just to annoy him. But Molly seemed to know what she was talking about, so he just let her get on with it, not wanting to understand about the various designer labels she kept chattering about.

If anything, he was thankful to Mycroft's credit card. He had no idea how his mother was going to bombard him with a lecture on responsibility when the card statement reached his big brother.

"Dr. Watson's going to go so mad after seeing you in these," she exclaimed, and Sherlock managed a little 'hmm', not really interested to go in front of his teacher in anything other than what he was comfortable in, a simple shirt, and jeans and jumper, and certainly not in a suit that was a little too tight at his shoulders.

But he had to admit, he did look good in them. Okay was a more appropriate word, while he tried not to roll his eyes at Molly and the tailor's stunned faces. One of them got as far as to call him exceedingly humble, at which Sherlock could do nothing but scoff. Molly could attest to how modest he really was.

And 'looker' was the word she had used. Sherlock begged to differ, and only thought about how John would look in a suit.

The award ceremony was two days from now, and the midterm exams just two weeks after that. Molly was on the verge of completing her syllabus, so she found that she could spend some of her free time playing Cluedo with Sherlock, and most of it with Greg, of course, but Sherlock did not need to know about that, did he? Anyway, their Organic Chemistry project attracted a lot of attention, and it was being accorded as some longish title that Sherlock instantly deleted the moment the name had fallen upon his ears. All he had done was extracting the compound, and upon analysing he had found that it's structure closely resembled that of sedatives which could be used during labour instead of the more harmful ones which had more permanent side-effects. For Sherlock, it seemed nowhere as brilliant as how his professors claimed it to be. He wasn't even planning on going, but there was one incentive. John would be going too, although with Jeanette, but that was alright. An idiot could see that John was no longer attached to her.

Sherlock eyed the suit cautiously as it lay mindlessly on the armchair, like an opponent smiling up at him maniacally, and for the umpteenth time, he changed his mind.

"I'm not going," he declared to a Molly whose complete attention was on the explanation that Sherlock had given to her on a question she had been stuck on. She chose not to pay any attention, knowing that a single word would make Sherlock huff and curl back into his armchair.

"Dr. Watson."

Okay, two words.

Sherlock huffed and buried himself into his mobile phone, "This is ridiculous."

"Shut up, Sherlock!" she snapped, now thoroughly annoyed, "Or I'll start on the solar system again!"

"What's the point of this anyway, Molly?" he whined, "I'm getting my grades, aren't I? Why do I need to get a prize for it?!"

Molly took off her reading specs and looked at him incredulously. Any other person would have killed for such a prestigious award, "Because you don't like it, Sherlock. We have to do things that we don't like doing, you told me that. Now shut up and let me study, or I'll go away to my flat."

"You'll go away anyway," he grumbled.

"I'll abandon you on the stage... How awesome, the great Sherlock Holmes has stage fright!"

"I do not have stage fright!" Sherlock snapped back, "And stop making me sound like I'm some hero returning to my homeland after having conquered the seven seas!"

Molly simply smiled, taking a deep breath at Sherlock's more relaxed face, "Better?"

Sherlock smiled back, "Loads better."

She kept smiling to herself, as she buried herself in the papers from the last year, "Although, it comes to me as a surprise," said she, restraining her laughter behind clenched teeth, "that you do know that there are seven seas..."

"Molly!" came Sherlock's voice, telling her that it was quite enough.

"Sorry, I'll shut up now."

* * *

The dreaded day came finally. Sherlock had his speech in his breast-pocket, and Molly was saying hello to everybody like the kind lovely soul she was as she took Sherlock's arm and he let her talk her way around. There were many other students from many other universities. St. Bart's wasn't recognisable anymore, it was sort of lit up with what Sherlock dubbed as "fairy lights" and Molly giggled at that. There were waiters and waitresses holding trays of champagne and seafood dotted around, and posh cars pulling up outside the grounds. There was classical music playing somewhere in the distance, and Molly simply whined about robbing the world of the sight of Sherlock Holmes in a fine tux and playing his lovely violin with those mournful tunes only she and Mrs. Hudson had had the good fortune to hear. Sherlock simply huffed in exasperation because Molly had an eternal love affair with his violin and not his "cuteness" as she very inappropriately named it.

And apart from that, Sherlock realised that Molly was slowly coming to terms with the idea of Sherlock and Dr. Watson. He knew her fears and her anxieties, he knew that she feared that he might go back to drugs if it didn't work out, and he knew that John was a teacher and he knew that she only thought the best for him, but sometimes, her attitude did make him feel like she was "Mycroft-ing" over him, although Molly tried her best not to do so, but nonetheless she did, and it was driving Sherlock on edge.

It struck him how well she knew him, much better than anyone in the whole world did, even Mycroft who was clearly of a superior intellect. He knew that Molly, having an alcoholic uncle, had protective instincts and a babysitting nature, and sometimes Sherlock wondered whether she stayed with him only because she needed to be felt needed, because there was frankly nothing in him that made him a proper contender of "best friend", but she did say that he was her best friend, and that she would never trade him for anything else.

But it was the times when Molly teased him with Dr. Watson which made it all up. She wouldn't stop, she would go on and on, and then Sherlock would be forced to drown her wailings in those of his violin.

Sherlock just couldn't stop. If studying his forensic science books and telling Molly off was all that he did, then Dr. Watson was all he could think of, and his dreams were beginning to be of a slightly more stimulating nature. It was beginning to become troublesome, since _he_ had to change the sheets and also wash them now, and not dump them on Mrs. Hudson. Worse, it was beginning to distract him in his class. Soon, Sherlock found himself being gratefully relieved from the sensation of being bored in Dr. Watson's class. But worse, he found that he couldn't concentrate on anything except the man himself, and his silly little, not to mention inexorable, habits. He replayed them a thousand times in his mind, and then he replayed them a few times more, so much that, to his utter dismay, he himself was becoming a victim to those habits. Molly looked at him weirdly whenever he would reach out for his coffee mug in a different way than he usually did, or whenever he would lick his lips, something that he never usually did. But eventually she figured it out, and Sherlock sometimes wished he had a friend who was of a lesser intellect than she was.

Presently, he found himself staring at a slim dark-haired boy whose skin was just as pallid has his. People were swarming around him, wishing him congratulations. Sherlock had never seen this boy around St. Bart's, perhaps he was from another university. The award was national after all, St. Bart's was just playing the host for this year. He simply revelled in his ability to look around at people and laugh inwardly at the multitude of problems they faced in their lives.

Molly and Sherlock squeezed into the congratulations circle, and that boy looked at him for the first time. Sherlock felt like cringing at the intensity of his gaze, almost as if it swept through his skin as his gaze travelled up and down him. There was something weird about him, and when Sherlock called something weird, it translated to normal English as outstandingly weird. He felt outlandish and silly for thinking such things that made him sound like a conspiracy theorist, but he couldn't help it from nagging at the back of his head. He frowned and looked away, instantly judging the boy as someone he would not be comfortable talking to. Sherlock glanced at the exit for a welcome distraction from the boy's singularly intense gaze, and felt his heart swell foolishly inside of him.

John was in a simple but striking black suit, a flattering cut against his body and obviously his best, he could see that much easily. Unlike Sherlock, who was holding his arms rather awkwardly, John seemed to have just the right look for it, and he looked like he was very comfortable. Right next to him, Jeanette look extremely dull, and Sherlock wished he could have been the one who was standing beside John, feeling his presence near him, and then slowly turn to kiss him, slowly and then with building fever and passion, go down, and down torturously till John couldn't take it anymore and he thrust into his mouth as he moaned Sherlock's name from his lust-reddened lips, until he saw stars...

How he wanted to do to John what he had been regularly doing to him in his dreams.

"Sherlock," Molly whispered, "That's the one," she pointed at the boy who had been previously staring at him with a decided lack of tact, "the one who beat Carl Powers, the Mathlete, and the one who's getting the award for excellence in the mathematical field here! Oh, I can already imagine Mr. Smith's red face!"

Carl Powers was a Mathlete, a prodigy in mathematics, as Sherlock was in organic chemistry, and this new boy had come out all of a sudden and beat Powers. Understandably, many of St. Bart's professors, and especially Mr. Smith who was their calculus professor, were avoiding him. Sherlock suddenly found himself a little interested in the boy, "Oh really?"

"Let's find out his name," she squeaked excitedly, "Come on Sherlock, let's talk to him!"

"What - ?" but before he could protest any further, he found himself being led towards him. Almost as if it had been planned, the boy's eyes met his, and Sherlock looked away instantly, deciding that he didn't like him at all. Thankfully, Molly volunteered to introduce herself, and Sherlock could see that she was pretty keen to do so. The corners of his mouth danced in a peculiar, self-satisfied smirk upon seeing Sherlock's discomfort before he leant in for a conversation with Molly.

Feeling utterly useless, Sherlock excused himself out of there. Although he had his back to him, he could tell that the weird boy was looking in his direction. If he had really beat Carl Powers, the boy who had the reputation of beating the hell out of the three IMO Olympiads he had sat through in secondary school, for that award, then he must be very intelligent, very much so. For his own part, Sherlock remained the second-highest scorer in mathematics where Powers was the first. It already bothered him that there was one person better than him, but now it bothered him even more that there were two people better than he was.

Well, only in Mathematics, and that was the only relief. When it came to Chemistry and biology, Sherlock was the undefeated, unquestionable topper.

But as Sherlock walked away from him, and towards the one person for whom he had come that night, that boy ceased to be the centre of his thoughts. John turned around and looked at him, and Sherlock was pleased to see the effect he had on him. Although he wondered if he did look as good as he did in a simple shirt and a pair of trousers.

"Hey," he managed hoarsely. Jeanette turned too, and for one moment, she was thrown off as well, and that seemed to please Sherlock more. But as John's mouth fell unconsciously open at the sight of Sherlock in a striking black suit and a black tie, what pleased him more became debatable.

But nothing was worth the dismay on Jeanette's face when John ignored her completely and focussed all his attention on Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes," he extended his hand cordially, and Sherlock gripped it, their handshake lingering just a little more for Jeanette to notice but not the rest of the world, "The big day, huh?"

"Oh please!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I came here only because... well, you know..." he glanced at Jeanette and laughed inwardly when he saw John go slightly pink in the face. Jeanette sighed exasperatedly, helping herself to some champagne that Sherlock thought she would never get to taste in her life otherwise, "Join me?"

To his dismay, John leaned towards Jeanette and kissed her softly on her left cheek, "I'll be back, darling."

Jeanette looked at him with a victorious smirk on her face and no affection for John's lips trailing over her skin, as if telling him that her boyfriend was still hers and that he would never be his. Sherlock felt a flash of fury at that. She did not deserve the time she got to spend with him. The least she could do was acknowledge his kiss, but she was more interested in keeping John to herself than someone he would genuinely be happy with.

"Take care of _my_ boyfriend, Mr. Holmes," her words were almost like a mock, as if suggesting that John would never be his. Nevertheless, Sherlock bit his lip and led John away from her, resisting the temptation to say, "Better than you, actually." John looked a little embarrassed upon being at the centre of a tug-of-war without even his permission.

"She's charming," Sherlock spoke sarcastically, as he handed John a glass of champagne.

"Sorry for that," he said sheepishly, "I really don't know why she acts so weird around you."

"Right," he managed a laugh, "You don't." John shot him a look that bordered on I-don't-know-what-you're-talking-about, and Sherlock simply sipped from his glass peacefully.

"Speech ready?" John asked, this time mischief glinting in his eyes endearingly. Sherlock reached out for it, "Here it is," said he, "I made some edits before I got out of the house when Molly hadn't been paying attention."

"So, you're just going to insult everyone for the award just like you do in my class?"

"Much worse, professor," he winked, and John simply rolled his eyes, "Well, I better let you get to it. Ms. Hooper's calling you already."

Sherlock turned around to see Molly with a glass of champagne, and he realised that he really needed to go. Molly had a most amazing talent for getting smashed just anywhere, and he really wasn't keen on getting on-stage with a drunk Molly, "Yeah probably, and I'll leave you to your... boring girlfriend."

"Go away," said John, with a slight smirk, making Sherlock's stomach turn in dizzying circles, and then he found himself frowning slightly at the description, however accurate it was.

"Molly!" he warned her, taking away the booze and frowning down at her like he was her dad. To his immense relief, she wasn't drunk, and to his utter displeasure, that strange boy was standing with her, watching Sherlock carefully. Being a master of piercing gazes himself, Sherlock really wasn't fond of being at the centre of one.

But when his voice came out, Sherlock found his mind grappling to keep up. He had expected it to be anything but soft, lilting Irish, anything else but that.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes!" said he, sounding and being too dumb for such an intelligent student, "Molly's told me all about you."

So, this strange boy and Molly were on first-names basis now. Sherlock tried not to come across as wary, and tried to best ignore his menacing presence, "Molly, now - "

"I'm Jim," he piped in excitedly, extending his hand, "I read about your project. Very interesting!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed momentarily, "Thank... you," and then, after a minute of hesitation, he added, "Yours too."

"You think?" Jim asked him brightly, and he began appearing less intimidating to Sherlock. Maybe he had just been imagining it, "Yeah, I really think we should go Molly."

And with that, he took her hand in his and almost dragged her over.

* * *

After ten minutes, Sherlock was beginning to become mind-numbingly and almost comically bored.

Molly was fidgeting in her seat uncomfortably, and the emcee tried to come across as unabashed at Sherlock's yawning, who had been sitting in the front seats. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Jim glancing at him every now and then, and that sense of foreboding did not entirely go away. It was disturbing, and although Sherlock tried his best to not come across like that, he couldn't shake that feeling away...

"... Sherlock come on!" Molly squealed as low as possible, "They've announced ours!"

Turned out, he really wasn't paying any attention to it. His and Molly's name had been announced, and their award described and the clapping had already begun. Sherlock rose awkwardly as Molly and he sauntered up to the emcee, who was looking down up at him with a calculating expression. Sherlock bestowed him with a half-smile, shook hands with him and gave a devilish smile for the photograph that he intended to send to Mycroft to help him with some nightmares. Molly thanked everyone, and Sherlock was beginning to think that she was going to thank even her cat, but to his relief she didn't, and to his dismay, she passed the mic over to him, just like she had promised.

"Er- I... ladies, gentlemen..."

Almost, as if he had been drawn to him, his eyes met Jim's again, who was settling back confidently in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. Sherlock licked his lips nervously, not understanding what was there in him that felt like a buzz in his mind, an annoying distraction. From that distance, his eyes were dark and dangerous and menacing, and only to stop himself from faltering, Sherlock swallowed and managed a vague 'Thank you' before strolling off the stage with Molly on his arm. She tried not to appear surprised at why Sherlock hadn't gone with the extremely offending speech he had written, or why he had faltered. As far as she knew, Sherlock did not have stage fear and she had never seen him hyperventilate. Somewhere at the back, John tried not to frown at the way Sherlock's demeanour had suddenly changed when he had looked at the audience. He tried to suppress the bitter twinge in his chest when Sherlock did not meet his eye, instead choosing to take another sip of the excellent wine in front of him. Jeanette gave a short laugh beside him, and John felt anger rising in him at her for laughing at the expense of his student.

"You okay?" Molly whispered as they settled into their seats. Sherlock tossed her the award, "Keep it. I'll have the photograph."

She frowned in confusion, "Why?"

"My smile in there, if you could call it that, is going to give Mycroft horrendous nightmares."

Molly sighed in relief. There was nothing wrong with Sherlock after all. Maybe he had decided to cut all the people some slack. Beside her, Sherlock simply sunk into his own world, trying to block out Jim.

* * *

After the awards there was some more socialising. Sherlock simply slinked off to a corner, leaving Molly to talk with students from other universities.

"Enjoying?"

He turned around to find himself face-to-face with Jeanette, "Hello. I thought John would be with you."

She leaned against the table near him, sipping from her glass, "John's off with his friends. Meanwhile, I thought if I could talk with you."

"Hmm... no," he said, sounding bored.

"Mr. Holmes," said she, smirking at him and then looked away, both of them staring at the blond professor, "You pretend as if there's nothing to talk about. You're trying to drive a wedge between John and me."

He chuckled, "Yeah, like you need _me _for that."

She turned around sharply, her eyes narrowing, "What's that supposed to mean?!"

"Please! I'm not doing anything. I'm just a student - "

"Who fancies my boyfriend," she exclaimed haughtily, "John is not gay. He'll never be with _you_."

Sherlock's eyes glinted, as if he had been looking for that, "So, you're not worried about your crumbling relationship with him, you're worried about me being with him... What sort of a girlfriend does that, I wonder?" he spoke, as if solving an equation, "perhaps the sort whose ex-lover, who was a seaman, left her for another woman, and who had to turn to John because by being with him, she could stay rent free in a flat than a hotel room because her family had already disowned her, perhaps?"

Not one of them noticed John who had spotted them together and who was striding over to them urgently, as if to prevent whatever damage each of them were about to do to each other.

"Perhaps the sort who had a tendency to cheat on her boyfriend, or maybe she already is... going by the state of your knees? Or the sort who's trying to hide the fact that she had undergone a secret pregnancy termination operation from her so-called boyfriend - ?"

Before Sherlock could realise it, Jeanette raised her hand, and brought it down in a slap across his cheeks. John froze a few metres away, as if he had himself felt it across his face. Thankfully, they were quite a distance away from people, so nobody heard that.

"You're despicable!" she croaked, her fists trembling and her knuckles whitening, her face twisting into abject hatred towards Sherlock. Her nostrils were flaring slightly, her breathing had become heavy, and yet steady, almost precise to be used as a metronome. Sherlock winced as he brought one long-fingered hand to his left cheek, feeling her blow. And then he turned to see John standing there, looking at Sherlock from Jeanette in stupefaction.

Jeanette turned around, and stormed off, "John, come on. We must go."

But John did not move. He stayed there frozen, as Sherlock breathed in, wincing from the blow, as he looked down at the ground, sucking in a sharp breath.

"No." His voice was calm, steady, slow.

She whipped around, looking at his face with serious incredulity, "What the hell, John? Come right now!"

Sherlock's eyes rose, from hers and to John, "Mr. Holmes, could you give us a moment of privacy here?"

"No!" Jeanette did nothing but scream, well almost, like fighting a lost battle, "What the hell had gotten into you, John - ?"

"Please stop screaming. You're making a scene," he ordered, sounding much like a teacher, and Sherlock felt that it would be best if he went right away.

"I'm screaming?! I'm the one making _scene_?" She approached them, "Fine! Say what you have to say! If you've got guts, say it in front of this _freak_!"

John swallowed, and for the first time, Sherlock felt genuinely afraid of him, for being so insanely calm and contained, even though anger practically vibrated in his voice. He saw the pulsing in John's jaw, as he worked his words out, calm and yet fierce, "You have no right to hit a student of mine, Jeanette."

"Student?!" she scoffed, "Even a blind man can - whatever, I hope you're happy with this freak! I hope you two grow old together!"

To Sherlock's surprise, John left his side, and grabbed Jeanette's arm a little too tightly, walking away from him. He had seriously not considered Jeanette to resort to a slap to shut him up, and her blow had come across as a shock to him. He closed his eyes, remembering John's face, and then turned away to walk towards his best friend, his mind preoccupied with John.

So much occupied that he did not notice Jim slinking under the shadows, who had probably witnessed all that had happened.

* * *

"How dare you hit Sherlock?!" John hissed at her once he had gotten her out into the grounds, "He is my student, and he's not a freak!"

Jeanette assumed a defensive pose, "Stop kidding yourself, John! I'm surprised you haven't been kicked out of St. Bart's after the way you follow him around like a puppy! He's - he's a boy. I'd have been fine if it was a girl - "

John scoffed at that, "Excuse me, excuse me, who asked for _your_ permission? As far as I see, you don't have any right over me!"

She laughed, regarding his idea as preposterous, "I'm your girlfriend, John, don't be ridiculous!"

John sucked in a harsh breath. "Not anymore. We're done."

Jeanette looked at him as if she had been gut-punched, gob smacked, "John, seriously - "

"Leave," he commanded, looking down at her black stilettos, feeling like a rebel, "We're done."

"Oh, so you choose _him_?" She cried out like she couldn't believe him, "Over me?"

"I'm not choosing anyone," his voice was still deadly calm, although, all of this felt like an act of rebellion, as if he was indeed choosing Sherlock over Jeanette, but as he kept telling himself, he was not breaking up with her just to be with him. He did not even want to be with anyone. He was... just done, "I'm breaking up with you."

"Fine!" at this point her voice was high, high enough to come across as deranged, "Don't come back crying to me when it's over," and that was John's breaking point. Everyone could handle until a certain point, and John was no exception.

"You know, you were the one who came back to me after Paul ditched you!" he retaliated back, "You were the one who patched things up just because _you_ needed a place to stay!"

And suddenly out of nowhere, John understood just what Sherlock meant by that weirdo cat story he told him every time.

"And don't pretend to be innocent," he continued. Sherlock was right as always, so right, "If you think I'm so stupid, then you're mistaken, and I'm endeavouring to correct it! Sometimes you do have to kick a cat in its sodding arse to stop it from purring like an irritating banshee!"

This time, Jeanette looked confused, a welcome expression from the previous maniacal one she had on her face, "What?!"

Suddenly, John felt light, lighter than he had in days. It was like he had been a canary in a cage, and that now he had found a crack in it and he had somehow managed to squeeze out of it, or as if Sherlock had winked at him and opened the door of his cage, setting him free. He actually might have flashed her a grin and sauntered off, his hands in his pockets, "Before you figure that out, I suggest you find a new residence for yourself."

"John?!" This time, her voice became much more confused, and almost bordering on painful, but this time, John was having none of it. No more words were needed.

"I'm done with you."

* * *

**I'm a math person, with passable knowledge in Chemistry and zero of biology, so if any of the things that I mention here sound like an oddity, please don't sue me.**

**Yes, I know, I made Carl Powers into a Mathlete instead of an athlete, bite me.**

**Screw you, word limit! I've had enough of that in high school from my English teachers and I'm NOT adhering to you when I write fanfiction!**


	13. Chapter 13

**So, Ka-boom is not far, we're nearly there.**

**I'm sorry if you don't like angst here, but the tags did say angst, so... you've been pre-warned *evil laugh which doesn't work at all***

**And some tooth-rotting fluff too, if you don't mind :-)**

* * *

Sherlock could not stay longer at the award function, because Molly was beginning to get too drunk, and he had to cart her off to her flat, where he knew that her parents were going to be mad at her for drinking a little too much. Well, she deserved it.

As for, John, he had seen him last with Professor Abbott and Professor Stamford, but he had been too busy managing Molly. By his face, he could make out that he had finally told Jeanette to stuff it and naturally he assumed that John was now single and that maybe now he would have no qualms about being with him.

Boy, was he wrong.

Sherlock stayed up all night, wondering how he should take things now. John's heterosexuality was a still a huge problem, and Sherlock knew that he somehow had to win his heart. So he did the only thing he trusted: Internet.

The internet said that a date was the best way to get the person you like to open up to you, or by buying them small affectionate presents. While Sherlock wondered if such a tactic would work on him, he decided to experiment with John, now that Jeanette was gone and John was "available".

Unable to contain himself, Sherlock started as early as 6:30 the next day, naturally having forgotten about the present and only to remember it when he was two streets away from John's house. What was a person supposed to gift another person? Something that John liked, obviously, but what? There was nothing on the street, except for one homeless fella, who was eating cherries, or who had just popped the first cherry into his mouth.

Sherlock sighed. Cherries it is. He drove to the man, and leaned out of the window.

"Are you feeling particularly hungry?"

The man shrugged, "No."

"Then you can sell the cherries to me. How much for that box?"

The man stared at him weirdly, wondering why Sherlock insisted on robbing a homeless fella of his only cherries, no pun intended, "Seven and a half."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirked in displeasure. It was too less. He wanted his gift to John to be very precious and special. Nevertheless, he did not give up, "Imagine," he picked up one of the cherries, "these are the last ones on the planet. There's not going to be any more after these. What's the price now?"

The man's eyes narrowed, "Fifty."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man's stupidity. If he were in his place, he probably would have said thousand at once, "Imagine that the Queen watered the cherry plant out of her very hands. What's the price now?"

The man gulped, wondering what sort of idiot he had run into right in the wee hours of the morning, "Hundred."

"Imagine that Adam did not eat an apple. He ate a cherry from a tree which made these ones too," Sherlock snapped impatiently, "What's the price now?"

This time, the man took the fall, "Five hundred."

Sherlock shook his head, and actually thrust five hundred into the bewildered man's hands and took the box from his hands, "Very poor in business, I must say. Have a nice day!"

And with that, Sherlock drove away, leaving the man to stare at the notes in astonishment.

* * *

John twisted and turned in his sleep, wanting the strange, surreal dream to end. Usually he dreamt about his life before college, and mostly he dreamt about his dad when he was still alcohol-free and who made pie on Christmas, but never anything as weird as this. He felt like he was being sucked into a whirlpool head-first, threatening to tear him apart. He wanted to scream, he wanted to struggle, but none came out. That big, dark hole kept sucking him into a whirlpool, with John powerless to resist...

John woke up with a start, immensely relieved that the dream had ended. But his heart immediately gave a lurch when he found out that the slimy sucking sensation did not go. Immediately, his eyes travelled upwards to see Sherlock's slate-coloured eyes staring back into his curiously, as if John were a lab specimen. Almost instinctively, John backed away, covering his sheet over his chest. Sherlock simply smiled happily.

"Good morning," he whispered, his face crinkling into a tender smile.

"Holmes, what the - ? What the hell are _you _doing here?!" He wondered if he was still dreaming, but Sherlock looked pretty real. And irresistible too... and then John mentally shook his head.

Sherlock looked confused, "Waking someone up with a kiss is supposed to be very romantic," he stated, and John simply stared at him in bewilderment, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

"Why the hell would you even do that?!" He asked, now anger rising through him, "And how the hell did you enter _my_ flat?!"

"Your fire exit was open!" Sherlock protested, "Even a blind robber, which is highly unlikely, can get in. And stop saying hell!"

John simply shook his head went to the mirror, dreading what he might see there. He gasped in horror. There was a big and throbbing hickey just above his left eye.

"Sherlock!" He felt like screaming his head off at this very insolent student, who did not respect the limits of an appropriate student-teacher relationship. But what came out of his mouth was not what any one of them had expected, "That's not what you call a waking kiss! It should be gentle. Gentle!"

"When I kissed you gently you didn't react, so I had to apply more force." Sherlock seemed offended that his endeavours weren't properly appreciated.

"_Sucking_ on someone's skull can hardly be considered kissing!" he retorted. Sherlock was so hopeless and so annoying.

Ignoring John's questions like volleys of arrows fired at him instead of acknowledging the kiss, he spoke excitedly, making warmth spread through John's chest despite himself, "I got you a present."

Blushing slightly, he handled John a box wrapped in newspaper. Forgetting all his anger, John looked at the package curiously, his heart pounding foolishly in his chest at the thought of a present from Sherlock, "What's this?"

"Of course, you have to open it, John," he rolled his eyes dramatically, "Need I teach you this obvious - "

"Okay, okay," John shook his head, unable to take Sherlock's banter anymore, and unravelled the packet to find a box of cherries staring back at him. John's eyes narrowed in confusion as Sherlock took one of the cherries and popped them into his mouth. John wondered if he had ever let it drop, even as a joke that he was fond of cherries. He did not. In fact, it was just the opposite.

"What's this?"

"These are called cherries, John," he retorted matter-of-factly, "I couldn't find anything to gift you, so I bought it for five hundred from the homeless guy who sits near Starbucks," he admitted shyly, and John couldn't help the warmth blooming in his chest for the millionth time.

Cherries for five hundred? Lord...

"So..." John bit the inside of his cheek, trying to contain his laughter and his annoyance, "You got me a present... cherries."

"Yup," said he, popping the 'p' neatly, "They're nice."

"Why did you get me a gift... Is this another of your projects?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, making himself comfy on John's bed without his permission. Sometimes, John forgot that Sherlock was his student, and then he would remember that he forgot that he was a student, at which point he would be very confused. Sherlock simply watched John, his hair dishevelled from sleep, and his voice sleep-roughened. He wanted to laugh out loud, because whatever he had with him, John was still his professor, and the idea of seeing him so mussed up instead of his pristine tie hanging from the starched collar buttoned right up to the throat was comical at the least.

"No, John. Couples are supposed to gift things to each other..." he stated in a scholarly tone, "I thought you knew that - "

"We're not a couple!" John insisted, "And you're not supposed to be here," he hissed, as if the neighbours could hear him, "Holmes, you're a student."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock grumbled, "I'm a student, male, ten years younger than you and I am all lines and angles instead of curves and mammary glands! But you broke up with Jeanette for me. Which obviously implies that you'd like to be with me - "

John shook his head, "Yes, I might have broken up with my girlfriend and she might have moved out, which should be none of your concern, but that doesn't mean I'm going to go out with _you_, Mr. Holmes. How many times do I have to - ?"

"Oh please!" Sherlock scoffed, "You defended _me_, against your girlfriend-in-a-manner-of-speaking."

"I did not break up with Jeanette to be with you! And I can't take these cherries."

Sherlock frowned, "Why not? They are very delicious. And I got you a gift, you can't refuse a gift!"

"Yeah but," John gave a yawn very unbecoming of his otherwise very self-conscious mouth, "I'm - er - look I appreciate this, but I - "

"You what?"

"I'm allergic to cherries," he admitted.

But Sherlock simply broke into laughter, "Great, so the only gift I get you to find out that you're allergic to them."

"Mr. Holmes - "

Sherlock continued, ignoring John, "Anyway, Angelo's, near Northumberland Avenue, 8 pm. Quite near your flat so it should be convenient for you. I'll wait for you there." Until you come remained unspoken.

"Mr. Holmes - " John began unsuccessfully, only to be cut off by Holmes once again, knowing what John was going to say, "Okay, I have to go. It's a Thursday, and I have to pick Molly up. Good bye!"

And with that Sherlock strode out of there, and into his car, whistling to himself merrily.

* * *

Needless to say, Sherlock arrived at Angelo's to find the booth empty. John didn't arrive. Sherlock bought himself science magazines to pass the time. One could almost say that if Sherlock was going to top the exams even this semester, it was going to be all thanks to Dr. Watson.

He smiled to himself at John's phenomenal stupidity, and it was only Sherlock who could take up so much rejection, but he knew it was okay because he could _read_ it in John's eyes, the desire, the need, the want for his companionship. It wasn't rejection, it was denial, and if anything, Sherlock was always up for a challenge.

Then he reminded himself never to use that terminology with Molly, otherwise one day he would end up being beaten up by her. Which she did once. Her slaps could be terribly painful, since she always wore stupid rings on her fingers.

If anyone had told Sherlock before he had met John that he would be waiting for a man to show up for a date everyday for two weeks, he had no idea what he would have done to them. But Sherlock did, he just sat in a corner and ordered what John always ordered when he had lunch in the university cafeteria, and the coffee he ordered there. Books and internet were the best way to pass the time and every day, he got up at nine o'clock as Angelo gave him the 'no-show' face sadly. Sherlock knew that his brother could see him, and he knew that Mycroft thought that he was a fool for waiting on a man who might never arrive. On Day 13, Mycroft had actually dropped by and tried to make Sherlock understand that this man was not worth his time and that Dr. Watson was as straight as one could be. Mycroft was frankly amazed at Sherlock's performance, that Sherlock had _hope _in his heart that John would surely come one day, like it was inevitable. Mycroft proceeded to tell him that Dr. Watson probably had no idea that Sherlock was sitting and waiting for him, at which Sherlock had only managed to challenge him in a game of deductions, knowing that Mycroft would surely be derailed from his agenda at that.

On Day 19, the miracle came true. John did arrive. Sherlock almost stood out of his seat in astonishment, as if he couldn't believe that he was there, even if he had come hoping that John would arrive. John had actually dressed up properly, as if for a date. His shoes were new, and his shirt was bought two days ago and his jacket still had the price tag on it. John had actually dressed up for him, and he looked, as Molly called it, so 'rad'. Sherlock swallowed as his eyes fixed themselves onto those of John's surprised ones. Why was John looking so surprised? He did tell him that he would be there... maybe it was because he hadn't expected Sherlock to arrive so soon. Fine, he was a slacker in uni but he would never be late for a date with him...

John hadn't dressed up for him, he realised as he spotted a blonde woman behind him, whom he was leading into the restaurant. Sherlock tried to swallow the instant rejection, and put on a smile.

"Holmes?!" John let out a surprised and a very undignified yelp, perhaps because he wondered why Sherlock, of all people, had to meet all his girlfriends, "What are you doing here?!"

Sherlock's stomach sunk deep into a pit upon hearing those mere words. A weight seemed to drag him down, and the fragile hope that John was going to come curled away, like paper that had caught fire.

"I was - er - "

He wondered whether he should tell John that he was waiting for him, instead of bringing with himself a date. John would really think that he was some kind of a freak, and Sherlock did not want to be known as that, not when Jeanette had called him by that very name. He did not want to come across as a stalker, but... "I - "

For some reason, the wrinkles of annoyance on John's face died down, as if he remembered why exactly Sherlock was there too. His eyes were indecipherable and uncharacteristically soft as he shook his head, "Sherlock, you - It's been two weeks!"

"Nineteen days," Sherlock corrected him, and John swallowed, looking over to his date whom he had seated at a table farthest away from Sherlock, "John, we should be together - "

He stopped before he could speak any further. John's eyes seemed saddened, and even at a distance he could see the rapidly jumping pulse point in his neck, almost as if he was agreeing with Sherlock.

"I've been ordering the salami sandwich you like - " Sherlock let it slip, his guarded tongue and his defences dissolved by the incomprehensible frankness in John's eyes, "I order my coffee without sugar - "

"Mr. Holmes!" John put up a hand, and Sherlock could see in sharp clarity the brown lines on his palms against the fair skin littered with pen marks. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to extend his too, and thread them together and go back to that rainy walk they had together. John's hands were shaking, as he spoke, "Go back to your place, and study. I'll be the happiest person on the earth to see you top this time as well," and with that, John walked away, leaving Sherlock bemused about what it was now that was pulling him away.

It struck him how earnest John's tone was. He didn't say that out of any sort of favouritism for him, and that struck home. John didn't say that as a teacher to a student. There was something else. The air between them had become warm, and hot and then with a weird twisting sensation which he was sure that John had processed.

"And by the way," John looked back, shooting illegal fireworks exploding through Sherlock's body, only to be doused by the hopeless feeling, "I like Italian Salad with bitter gourds too," this time, he had an impish grin on his face, "You could order that too."

Sherlock wondered how he had a female friend when it was females who took away his every opportunity with the man he fancied.

Angelo walked across to him, looking worriedly at him, "Is that your date, senor?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "One Italian Salad with bitter gourd, please. Along with my usual."

* * *

The next day, Sherlock gave up on his crusade of ever being able to convince John. The doubts that he had brushed away on that day when they had shared a walk under the force of the rain returned to him in full measure. He saw desire in John, but what if it was not what Sherlock had thought? As far as he had seen him, John's life was as mundane as it could get. The routine life of a professor, his vision hidden behind glasses, the tie like the hangman's noose on his neck, alcoholic sister, tiresome and demanding girlfriends... was Sherlock only an outlet for his frustration in his life, for not being able to do that something that he wanted to? Was he miscalculating, was he _wrong_ about John, or did he hate him for leading to his breakup with Jeanette?

Because outside uni, Sherlock wasn't John's student, so why was he not amenable to the idea of them being together? Was it only because of the stupid word called "student", or was it the ten-year generation gap, because Sherlock had a hunch that being male isn't John's first problem right now.

John did not trust him. He always pointed out the problems of them being together. Sherlock wished he trusted him. But he didn't. No one ever did. Sometimes not even Molly.

He only was thankful (was he?) to own the fact that he never let any of the doubts swim to the surface, to the front of the confident mask that he wore in front of everyone.

His phone rang out beside him. He wanted to go to Angelo's booth to sit there and wait for John again, even if he felt doubtful. He hated his mind for being so perfectly able to conjure up an explanation that pointed to the fact that John did not want to be with him. Of course, he had always hated the most precious possession that he had at his disposal. His mind was his greatest enemy, combined with his treacherous heart, it always made him doubt himself by raising side-doubts, and things he shouldn't be bothered with, but he has to, because all of them eventually led to John.

He had gone over his entire syllabus three and even four times while spending his time there and he had thought over twenty three new ideas for his experiments, but he did not want to be the first man in history to be stood up for the twentieth time. John was cruel if not anything, if he decided to let Sherlock sit there for eighteen days, and then bring his own date on the nineteenth. Seeing that his brother was calling, he was tempted to press "ignore call", but as he had never done that, he picked it up eventually. Mycroft wasn't the one to call him just because he had a whim, was he? That was more like Sherlock's speciality.

"Yes, what?"

"Aren't you ready for your _date_, Sherlock?" came the snide, deriding reply, and Sherlock felt like he had never been proven so spectacularly wrong.

"Go shave your back, Mycroft!" He snapped back, and he heard the mocking laughter, instead that it did not sound mocking. At all.

"Shame, that," came Mycroft's cool voice, "Because I think I can see a man of Dr. Watson's height and his stature sitting cross-legged at the booth right now. What time it is? Oh yes, almost half past eight. In fact, he has been there since a whole half-an hour."

Sherlock's eyes widened at that. Oh, he wanted to believe, he wanted to believe so, so bad that John was there sitting, waiting for him. For _him. _In _his _booth, and not with some random girl who wore too much makeup as if she were going to an Indian wedding. He wanted to believe that John was sitting there waiting for him. And if he was, he wanted to sit at home, and let John see how it felt like to be stood up, never minding the pleasant temptation to run away to Angelo's.

Or it could just be Mycroft pulling his leg.

Except Mycroft did not seem to joke. Ever.

Nevertheless, he snapped, "I can't believe that you have sunk to such low measures to make a joke out of me, Mycroft - "

"Don't be absurd, brother dear. I was in the middle of a very important meeting when my PA came to inform me about it."

Sherlock's mind swam pleasantly at the explanation, "What?!"

Mycroft understood that he had let slip a very undesirable fact that he had kept the professor under his vigil, "Anyway, Sherlock. Christmas is coming, and Mummy needs you here after your exams are over. You can bring Ms. Hooper with you, seeing as Mummy and she are on the very best of terms."

Sherlock knew exactly why Mycroft was always insistent upon calling Ms. Hooper to their house. Whenever she came up, Mummy Holmes and Molly always tended to team up and make Sherlock's life a living hell, allowing the big brother some excuse from his mother's scolding, seeing as Mummy Holmes still liked scolding his twenty-six year old son about his diet and his official nonsense.

"Aw, hell! No way - !"

"Eight thirty three, brother dear. Don't want to make him late, do you? And at any rate, a small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss," Mycroft's voice sounded singularly expectant, but his voice felt short as the call ended with a beep.

* * *

John was pouring over his copy of _Gray's Anatomy_, waiting for Sherlock to arrive. He had said eight o'clock, hadn't he? He wondered why he was late today of all days, when he had managed to come and agree to it.

He didn't know what it was about the familiar restaurant that made his stomach lurch. Meeting Sherlock in a public place and that it had no relation with university seemed daunting to him, and rebellious. And John hated for it for sounding so inviting.

He couldn't make head or tail of it. It felt like he was giving out a vibe or waves or whatever it is that he was giving out. It felt like although everyone was buried in their food and their incessant chatter, their attention was still somehow fixed on John because of those vibes, as if they could feel it on the skin, so strong that it sent them involuntarily nose-first in his direction.

He looked at his watch. Eight forty five. What if Sherlock had decided to give up? That would be a desirable development, no mentioning however disappointing. He knew that he looked weird, sitting there all by himself, waiting for a person who, in all probability may not show up. Even though he was familiar with the restaurant, and the manager, Angelo, since it was only a few blocks away from his flat, it felt, everything felt distinctly different. The lights looked brighter, harsher, more imposing, telling him to stay and go at the same time. The woodwork under his fingers seemed smoother and unfamiliar and a lot like the way Sherlock's warm fingers felt under his, and he had no idea how that parallelism seemed so appropriate to him even though it shouldn't be, but it did nonetheless and John couldn't argue with cutting, jagged-edged logic, could he?

He remembered the last night, the disappointing date with Cassandra, but did not bother recalling it just before his "study date" with Holmes. She had been pretty amazing till Sherlock had turned up, and after that, John lost every little ounce of interest that he had in her. His mind, his body and his heart burned, _yearned_ to go to Sherlock and do - what? He had no idea himself. He didn't know what he expected to get out of a meeting (meeting, not date) with Sherlock Holmes except for an assortment of awkwardly juxtaposed sentences and remarks and Sherlock's blatant flirting that somehow managed to make him feel like he would be so much better off after running a few laps of the whole city and shouting out to the world that he WAS not gay at all.

But, as Sherlock had made the idea creep into his mind and make a permanent residence there, liking Sherlock (and he did NOT like Sherlock, thank you very much) did not equate to being gay. If he were truly homosexual, he would've been attracted to other men also but he wasn't. And he knew about bisexuality, and he knew that he wasn't one. Because he didn't feel like he was attracted to women and men. It was like he was attracted to women and, oh God he did not say this, Sherlock.

He would've given anything in the world just for the intense feverish pulse calm down in him.

He had wanted to take the cherries that Sherlock had given him and pop them all into his mouth, and he knew about the way his body would go off jittery in both directions after he did that. But the idea that Sherlock had given him cherries, and something as insanely hilarious that he had bought them from a homeless fella for five hundred pounds had made something else move in his chest again, and it had made him take them and then worry about the consequences later. It was not like anything hadn't moved in his chest before when he had first saved Sherlock and Ms. Hooper from a bunch of bullies, or when Sherlock had asked him out, or mostly when Sherlock had allowed him into a fact about himself that he had probably not told many people, about his drug-saddled past. But it had been the moment when John had set his eyes on him, waiting patiently in a corner of Angelo's was when he had felt that his heart had either dropped to his stomach waiting to be churned by the digestive juices, or maybe it had climbed up his narrow oesophagus lined with thorns.

Or maybe, it had jumped out of his chest, or cut through his shoulder blade, ejected itself out of him. At that moment, anything could've been possible.

It was hard to verbalise what he had wanted or felt when he had seen Sherlock there, and when he had consequently realised _why_ he was there, and it had been hard to concentrate on anything after that. It had just been Sherlock's presence hovering in the back of his mind, leaving a deep imprint behind the eyelids of his mind's eye, cursed to see Sherlock whether his eyes were open or closed or both.

Presently, his eyes drifted to the lithe figure of Holmes hurrying down the cab. It seemed like if he stopped running, the world would curl into itself and collapse upon him, or the hellhounds that were on his track would tear him apart if he dared to even catch a breath. John almost stood up in relief, but then forced himself to sit down, and take a moment to calm himself. He smiled lazily at Sherlock's surprised face.

John was dressed nothing like a date, not with his retro nerdy glasses and his cardigan pulled over his button-down shirt complete with his tie. He looked like just the way Sherlock was used to him, just the way he was fond of, even if a proper suit made him look sexier. Like a professor.

"John..." he drifted off, evidently at a loss of words from his smart-arse mouth. John was waiting for him, and smiling up at him. His date from last night had perhaps not gone well, but that was the least of Sherlock's concerns.

"Come on then, Mr. Holmes," John replied smoothly, showing him the copy of _Gray's Anatomy_ and eliciting a groan of dismay from him, "We haven't got all evening."

Sherlock's shoulders dropped, and he huffed into the seat next to him, "Seriously?! After I convince you to go on a date with me, you try to be my _bloody_ teacher?"

"I am you teacher," John retorted, rolling his eyes, "Now, I'll appreciate if you don't call my _class_, not date, boring, you know."

Sherlock smiled wryly, taking off his jacket, "Yeah sure, go ahead. All thanks to you, I'm going to top this semester as well."

"So confident?" said John, flipping through the pages, "I didn't realise I was such a good teacher."

"I wasn't complimenting."

"I know."

Sherlock shifted very slightly in his seat and eyed John mischievously, "You know, the restaurant is a very noisy place. What about we go to your place and study?"

At this point, under the table, Sherlock's leg had suddenly come in contact with John's, and he was brushing it gently against his. John swallowed for a highly uncomfortable moment, and before he could cough it away, Angelo appeared with an impish glint in his eyes, "Sherlock, Dr. Watson! What should I get you? Maybe that Italian Salad with the bitter gourd that you ordered yesterday?"

John turned to Sherlock in astonishment, "You _actually _ordered that?!"

"Turned out that your taste perception is radically different from that of an average human."

"Oh, so you _do _consider yourself to be an average human?!" John eyed him slyly, and Sherlock, in reply, caressed John's calf with his foot provocatively. John's throat had become very suspiciously dry and his mouth too damp to be able to speak without drooling.

"John will have the salad, and the usual for me," Sherlock remarked, while John tried to recover from Sherlock's brutal ways to get his cock interested.

"I'm not eating that crap," John protested, "Wait, a simple tomato pasta with do!"

"I'll get a candle for the table," Angelo quipped, "it's more romantic." And then, before John could protest anymore that this was not a date and that it was a "study date", Angelo hurtled away. John heaved an exaggerated sigh. After all, who had heard of a study date in an Italian restaurant.

"So," John looked at Sherlock's smug face, "happy? Now let's get to revision - "

Sherlock simply groaned, not knowing whether to hate John for conducting revision during what was supposed to be a date, or whether to love him for having come at last.

* * *

Their "date" was nothing like Sherlock had imagined it to be. Pretty soon, he found John asking him questions that he was starting to find difficult to answer, and he was getting used to John's smug face because he knew and Sherlock didn't. But every time, Sherlock managed to drift him from conversation, and John was surprisingly unyielding. But at any rate, nothing was worth those treasured and truly awkward moments of sexual tension between the two. Any crappy doubts which Sherlock had in his mind before that had gone away, just gone away like they had vanished in mid-air, and Sherlock found himself laughing more than he ever allowed himself to.

"So," Sherlock spoke, as John put his coat on, ready to leave, "Will we be doing this again?"

John shot him a challenging look, "I don't think we'll need this, Mr. Holmes, seeing as you're fairly good - "

"I meant going out, John," Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his expression remained expectant, "We can make this work."

John simply shook his head, giving him a sarcastic laugh that went straight to the hollow of his chest, and felt like a thin, fine shard of ice travelling through as he saw John's thin lips curl in a sneer, " 'This' is nothing, Mr. Holmes. You should either learn to live with it, or simply wallow in confusion. I cannot possibly use any harsher words. You must learn to take the rejection, even if - "

"Even if _what_?" Sherlock pounced on it, "How many times do I have to drill through that thick skull of your that we can? You just don't seem to trust me."

"There's no point, Sherlock," and for a split second, Sherlock saw the deep anguish in John's eyes, before they were thinly veiled by that ever-stern expression, "I have told you countless times during the da - study date," he remarked, mortified at Sherlock's growing smirk, "that all of this is a huge misunderstanding - !"

"Then why did you come?" Sherlock asked directly, "Let's not play games like children, and be the adult you crave so much. Tell me, why did you care enough to come?"

The corners of John's mouth dropped as he gritted his teeth at how frustrating Sherlock was being, or how frustratingly sensible he was being. He clenched his fists as they shook beside him, in the immediate danger of colliding with his ridiculous cheekbones. He sucked in a sharp breath, and that stiffness of posture was all that Sherlock needed to know. Sherlock straightened up, and wore his jacket back.

"You care for me, John Watson, much more deeply than you realise. Otherwise you wouldn't have eaten those cherries in spite of your allergic reaction. And don't tell me you didn't, you know you can't hide it from me!

"Tell me what is it that I'm not doing!" Sherlock demanded, "I'll leave uni if I must," his voice was solemn, and it didn't quiver one bit as he spat out the cold, hard, emotionless truth, "If it means being with you, I'll leave. I don't want to attend anyway."

John coloured deeply, and turned away, "Good night, Mr. Holmes. Wish you and Ms. Hooper the best of luck for the exams."

Sherlock simply watched his retreating figure getting smaller and smaller as time and space brought that distance between them. He shouldn't have said that, he realised. Instead, he should've taken his chance and leaned forward to kiss him. After all, all the signs were there. John was continuously glancing at his lips, licking his own and his pupils had become brown instead of deep blue. He should've wrapped his arms around John and kissed him.

And then he thought that it was an even worse idea.

John became smaller and smaller as he walked away, as he put the distance between them, the distance that Sherlock _loathed._

Or maybe Sherlock had become bigger, hovering high up in the air, towering over the sky, so large that everything seemed small now.

At that moment, anything was possible. There was ample, overwhelming evidence.

But the doubts, understanding neither reason nor logic and although supported on the basis of logical reasoning, returned, and everything became normal and bland again.

* * *

**FYI, the Italian Salad that John asks Sherlock to order for himself is one of the worst recipes ever, or so I've heard =P**

**God, I have like 7 WIPs now, and I want to do all of them, and I want to do this one more than the most because it allows me to make Sherlock completely shameless (which he obviously is, lol)... and it's so unfair to the others**


	14. Chapter 14

**And the man of the year arrives finally. Can you guess?**

**I'll make edits tomorrow.**

* * *

John slipped into his bed at 3 a.m. after the New Years' Party, completely smashed, having drowned himself in alcohol. He hated Poles, he decided. And more than that, he hated partying Poles. He was tempted to say no to them, but considering the fact that no one ever lived to have said no to a partying Pole, he simply got along with it. He had dragged his aching body upstairs to his flat and miraculously to his bedroom, complaining about how bright the lights were to anyone who cared to listen, and the most pathetic part was that he couldn't even take a one night stand with some random girl. Although he usually didn't do one night stands, that was when he was in university and now he was an adult, and on top of that a professor, it seemed a shame that he was starting the New Year without a girl sleeping beside him.

"Hey," came a hypnotising deep voice from somewhere near the window. John tried to think whether he had left it open, and to the mildest of his surprises, he found that he couldn't. Although it was New Years' Day, there wasn't any snow falling, or any snow out in the street.

"Am I dreaming?" he managed clumsily to Sherlock, who was watching him with a sadistic smirk on his face, this time in the same white shirt and the sky blue jeans, the way John liked him best. Although, he had to admit to his drunken mind, he liked Sherlock more when he was _out_ of them.

Since that one time in the rain, Sherlock's body had haunted him, day and night, and John wasn't sure why. It wasn't supposed to be sexy, and yet it could make him hard faster than a plug could (and NO, he had never used a plug that anyone knew about anyway, there were a lot of insane things he did in uni that he preferred to keep under covers and the sworn secrecy of bro code).

Besides, he knew that Sherlock was _romantically _interested in him, not sexually, or at least he pretended to think so. Seducing John was his cup of tea, but Sherlock had never made a physical move on him, except for caressing his fingers in the lab or in the parking garage. John tried not to think how _good_ Holmes would feel beneath him if only his fingers could feel so...

All thoughts took flight from John's mind as Sherlock approached him, or rather strutted across to him, resting one of his palms on John's thigh, as he climbed on top of him, rather than what John imagined in his fantasies. At least dreaming about him wasn't illegal. But the way he dreamt could very well be.

Sherlock bit his lower lip as that smirk failed to grow. He dipped his head, and his fingers worked his belt off, his voice dreadfully sultry, "You tell me."

John swallowed upon seeing his lustful eyes as his lips trembled upon the arduous task of forming words, his breath shuddery as Sherlock licked the bulge through his jeans, "W - Why?"

"How much do you want me?" And before John could react, the jeans had vanished and he was only in his grey boxer briefs and his cock was straining through the fine material beautifully. It wouldn't have made any difference if he were naked. Sherlock was watching him, and the only way John knew that this wasn't reality was the absence of his ever-observing penetrating stare.

Don't think about penetrating, his mind thought uselessly.

"F - fuck," he groaned, trying not to look into Sherlock's eyes and give up.

"What was that?" Sherlock's voice was incredibly normal for someone who was palming John's cock carefully, almost worshipping. An expression of intense, taut pleasure flickered across John's violently red face, he could barely watch his body going against him, and surrendering itself to Sherlock palm, his fingers as if he were a horny teenager. He fought valiantly the temptation to take Sherlock's hand and shove it inside his briefs. He had been aching for it for four months. For one hundred and twenty two days. John's alcohol-weakened mind could not do the rest of the calculation ahead. He hated himself for being so out-of-control when his student could easily be his own master.

"S - stop..."

"You don't want me to," Sherlock bent down, and all John could see was his tousled head resting needily between his legs, "So glorious..."

John knew that this was another of those weird dreams, because Sherlock would never ever have said those words from his self-important mouth.

"Kiss me," John tried to mouth, but his throat muscles stopped working as he felt Sherlock's mouth on his cock through the cotton of his briefs. He could _feel_ the saliva, the wetness soaking through, although he wasn't sure whether it was Sherlock's mouth, or his pre-cum.

"No," came a low throaty voice from between his legs, and Sherlock licked his erection, and pressed his nose to the material. John's hands finally managed to free themselves from whatever invisible grasp there was on them, and instead of shoving Sherlock away from his hardness, he managed to entangle his fingers through Sherlock's hair, "You like that, don't you? Every time... you fucked Jeanette, you thought of _me_."

John whimpered, successfully making the bed shake against the wall. A bit of plaster broke off, and the landlord would give him a talk on that, but he didn't care, not with Sherlock's damp, humid mouth licking his bulge, not with his mouth travelling upwards, and softly nipping the flesh beneath his navel where the hair curled, and down as his teeth and fingers reached the waistband of his briefs. Almost unconsciously, John rolled his hips up, helping Sherlock take them off and throw them away on the floor.

And this time, when John looked up at towards him, there was not a single piece of clothing on his body. The muscles and the firmness of the chest was just as he remembered them to be from that day, his pink nipples were perked up in shameless excitement. John grabbed the base of his neck, and forced him forward, wanting to ravish him but Sherlock stopped at a torturous distance from John's lips. He could _feel_ the hot breath on his damp lips, he could see Sherlock's pupils and was still not able to process what was there, his mental processes were so shut down.

Only he had that effect on him, once Sherlock began, John just couldn't _stop._

"John..." he moaned softly, but his voice came out as only like a dying man begging for a drop of water, and making John almost come in his hands, which were wrapped around his cock now, "How many times a day do you think about me?"

John closed his mouth shut, and he rolled his hips again. Sherlock let go of him, and without warning, John felt the truly nerve-wracking-building-burning-skull-cracking sensation of Sherlock pining their twin erections together, "More times than I b - blink," he gasped, "Sh - Sherlock..."

"I want you to fuck me," Sherlock stated in a smooth voice that sounded almost comical, making those explicit fantasies burn in John's mind's eye, whenever it felt like a twinge in his cock in the most inappropriate of times, "Over and over again, till _you_ can hardly bear it, till it _hurts_ so much that you feel ashamed to go to an andrologist because he's going to call you a filthy pervert, _professor_. I want you to fuck me so hard that when you see me limp even after weeks, you think of _this_."

That was the worst part. Even though Sherlock was the one begging for John's cock, John still felt like he was bottoming and that Sherlock was on top.

"Sherlock..." he groaned, because there was nothing else that he could do, as Sherlock's mouth travelled down the line of his sternum, marking a salacious path through the hair that curled below his navel down, and he finally gave John a dirty look, a truly dirty, wanton look. John shuddered at that. But if it was out of danger or out of need, he had no clue.

"Yes..." he hissed through clenched teeth, as Sherlock took half of his length into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing, and his eyes miraculously fixed on John's. John closed his eyes, biting viciously down on his lower lip. He wanted to reach out and shove Sherlock's head down and down until he took in his full length, and he rolled his hips again as he felt Sherlock's teeth and his tongue travelling up and down him. He wanted him so bad, he wanted to be inside him so bad that it seemed like a crime to fuck him as bad as he wanted to.

Sherlock's fingers curled around the base, as he removed his mouth from him just to enjoy the look of protest on John's face. It served him right. After all, there's only so many times a person could take rejection.

"Man-whore," John swore under his breath, desperately reaching out for Sherlock's hands, his touch on his filthy cock again, "No... p - please..."

Sherlock smirked, "Because you said so nicely," and John gave a violent start when he felt the damp, dark heat of Sherlock's mouth swallow the excited flesh again. He licked it sloppily, too excitedly for someone with unwavering self-control, and John whimpered as well as he could in his drunken state. Even in this manner, it was much, _much_ more erotic than some of his best experiences with women put together.

John rocked his hips against Sherlock's mouth, almost bruising his lips with his fervour, while he effectively kept him pinned down between his legs. He could feel his tongue playing around with his flesh, and he was _far_ from close. He wanted this to go on all night. In his sober state, he would've killed himself out of shame to hear those obscene, erratic noises that he made against him.

"I _hate _you," he growled, and Sherlock simply whimpered against his skin, going even harder and suddenly, before John was ready, he felt drifting off the cliff. He wanted to come inside Sherlock's mouth, to see him suffocate, and punish him for what he was doing to him. But John could do nothing. He simply shut his eyes as he felt the deep rumble of Sherlock's baritone ringing in his ears.

"Happy New Year, John."

But before he could grab Sherlock's hair, he had already removed himself, and even if John's eyes were shut, he could feel Sherlock watching him spasming under the blinding force of his own orgasm. Hastily, John replaced Sherlock's fingers with his own, rubbing himself frantically as he came hard in his hands.

"Come here," he pleaded, and surprisingly, Sherlock obliged, taking John's softening member in his mouth, and licking away his ejaculate, watching him with a dangerous glimmer in his eyes. John blinked, feeling at peace as he felt Sherlock's figure wrap on top of his. Sherlock had not come after him, or even before. Without being aware of it, he slid his hand down to where he was expecting Sherlock's cock to be.

John opened his eyes in dismay, and the beige walls of his bedroom stared back at him. Sherlock wasn't there. And snow was back in London, with drunken people about in its street snogging everyone they could lay their eyes, or rather their grip upon.

If only this were true.

John felt drool trickling down his mouth, as he tried to remember Sherlock's face as he came in his hands. To his agony, he couldn't.

* * *

One torturously long Christmas vacation and New Years day later, Sherlock and Molly were back in London from his family house in Lincolnshire. Mycroft had declared that he loved Christmas for a change, while Sherlock had declared the opposite quite understandingly. And it had all become possible because Molly had gone over for Christmas at Sherlock's parents' house, and obviously she had dragged Sherlock with herself because, no matter how well she and Mrs. Holmes got on, Molly always felt intimidated by her, especially her piercing eyes, which according to her, were alright on Mycroft and Sherlock, but not on a woman.

And they were back in university. Everyone went loony with results, checking the bulletin board with their hall tickets in their hand. Some were jumping, waving their fists at having passed. Carl Powers was somewhere a few metres away, shooting Sherlock several murderous glances at topping every time, despite not being the most sincere student, and despite not working hard at all. Some students, mostly girls were crying, and some boys, in an act of fake chivalry, were lending them their shoulders to cry on. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes at the melodramatics around him. Molly came around, her face shining with happiness. Sherlock thanked God for that. She had cried buckets after her breakup with Greg, and now it was better to see a smile on her sweet face.

"Sherlock!" She came and pulled him into a tight and truly uncomfortable-rib-cracking hug, "I'm seventh!"

Sherlock hugged her back unenthusiastically, "Great, congratulations." She frowned at his unenthusiastic tone.

"What's wrong?"

He settled on bottom step of the staircase again, "I'm bored. It was much better when you were crying for Gavin."

She looked at him, utterly shocked, but Sherlock did not seem to register that, "Sherlock?"

"Please Molly," he put a hand up, "I have no time for your - "

"Isn't that Jim?" she pointed at the short, slim dark-haired Irish boy shaking hands with Dean Hope, "From the award function?"

Sherlock's head snapped in that direction. Sure enough, without a suit hiding his meagre body up underneath, Jim looked like quite the modest and working-class-parents sort of student, who was probably there on a scholarship of some sort. Carl Powers turned in his direction, and was now really confused about who to hate more: Sherlock or Jim.

Although, Molly watched the boy with some fascination, Sherlock only observed the Dean's demeanour. They seemed a little too friendly, or maybe he was just imagining it. Jim was the sort of boy who seemed to be able to socialise without any effort.

"He had his eye on St. Bart's," Molly informed him, "but I didn't think he was serious. I thought he was joking."

Sherlock frowned at that. Why would a student like Jim go for St. Bart's instead of a more reputed one like Cambridge or Oxford? The only reason Sherlock was here was because his brother had decided for him and because Cambridge or Oxford, it made no difference to him, and the only reason Carl Powers attended St. B's because he had been late with his college applications, or so Molly told him.

Maybe it made no difference to Jim as well? Could he be that intelligent?

"How do _you_ know?" Sherlock turned to her all of a sudden. Molly blushed pink at that.

"Well, we... I - we exchanged numbers... and we kept in touch over the holidays..."

Sherlock considered it for a second, and then a possibility struck his head, one he hoped wasn't true.

"Is that why you broke up with Graham?!"

Molly turned violently red, shaking her head, "It's Greg." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"So _that's _why you broke up with him?!"

"Hey, you can hardly be considered his attorney," she protested, "And since when did it matter to you?!"

That shut him up. Why was it bothering him that she had broken up with Greg? It was good after all... He was annoying and he always smelled of engines and punk music, not to mention the one time he had lent Sherlock some car parts for free, saying that he could do at least that much for Molly's best friend.

Sherlock looked down at his hall card, and then back up to see Jim's wide brown eyes on him, burning with fascination, a crooked smile dancing on his face. Sherlock suppressed a shudder, and simply dumped it in his bookbag, "We should go." he remarked to an apologetic Molly, who looked guilty for having lashed out at Sherlock like that.

* * *

After the lunch break, Sherlock as usual buried his nose into a book completely unrelated to the syllabus he was supposed to study. Molly was chattering away and they were all waiting for Dr. Watson to arrive. He had missed him so much over the holidays, although he pretended not to, and the only thing which kept them connected was his phone and the numerous texts they had exchanged, although he was always the one who initiated them, he could tell by the time John took to reply that he thought intensely about what he was about to send as a text. They had exchanged only two phone calls, during which Sherlock had stolen away to a deserted corner of the little village, imagining John there with him, imagining him arguing over the things they argued over on the phone. Sherlock cherished each and every single moment of those phone calls and simply counted his days back to when he would get to see him again.

Suddenly, he felt a foreboding presence beside him, followed by the most childish of squeaks. "Hi, Molly!"

He looked up to see Jim standing there, picking at the strap of his bookbag. Sherlock looked him up and down. At close proximity, he looked like a scholarship student, with bitten nails, and socks that did not match. The strap of his bookbag had been sewn into place three times, and his hair was mussed up.

Even though Jim had addressed Molly, he was looking at Sherlock with a calculating expression. There was a heat to the boy's eyes which only he could detect, and nobody else.

To his surprise, Molly was pleasantly flustered, "Jim?! Hi! I didn't know you were sharing class with us!"

"Second year anatomy," said he, showing her a sparkling new schedule, "Want to introduce me to your charming friends?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically at that. As much as Jim put him off, he really had half-a-mind to warn him, when he heard the pleasant all-clearing mellow of John's voice flooding the hall, "Yes, please settle down... Ms. Aldrin, could you take the attendance please?"

Sherlock looked up from his book, and stared at John expectantly. It had been so long since he had seen John. He had wanted to pay him a visit over the holidays, but sadly, Lincolnshire was a far way from London. John looked so much better after the holidays, clean-shaved and much more refreshed. He had bought a new pair of glasses for himself, although the older were much better...

"Can I sit here?" came an intrusive, diabetes-inducing voice which ate away John's thoughts out of his mind. Jim was looking at Molly hopefully, who was asking Sherlock get up and let Jim move in.

"No," Sherlock promptly declared. Molly flushed violently and shot him a murderous look, "Yes, he can."

Sherlock looked up at Jim challengingly, who stared back into his eyes faux-innocently, which was something only Sherlock could detect, he thought. He didn't know what it was, but he found himself automatically getting up and let Jim sit between Molly and him. Molly did not seem troubled in the slightest, as she shifted away to create some space between them.

There was something odd about the boy. Although Sherlock wasn't a person who set much store by intuition, he still couldn't shake off the weird feeling he got as he felt Jim squirm beside him.

John turned around, and after almost a month, their eyes met and lingered over each other's faces, as if trying to record what changes the holiday has brought over them... well Sherlock had certainly got a little healthy, before they turned to the person sitting next to him. Sherlock felt immeasurable amounts of annoyance at that. He thought that John's eyes rested on Jim longer than they did on him.

"What's your name?" John asked him, even though he knew his last name. Sherlock remembered how John had asked him _his _name when they had first talked "officially".

"Moriarty," he replied softly, almost a lisp. One of the boys laughed in another corner of the hall. John nodded smartly at that, and then declared that they were going to have a welcome-back sort of test, and passed them their worksheets. Sherlock saw Jim take out a perfectly new pen out of his bookbag, with no scratches on it, and its lid intact. Sherlock looked at his, and only heaven could help him.

They began. Sherlock could feel Moriarty beside him, his left against Sherlock's right as he furiously wrote his answers down. Moriarty was clever, intelligent, and Sherlock watched in dismay as he answered the last two questions the first -

"Mr. Holmes," Dr. Watson called out, "Eyes on _your_ paper."

Sherlock frowned at him, at his stern face. It was not like he was going to cheat, was he? The professor's eyes met his, and the severity did not drop away as a hoax. He rolled his eyes and went back to his paper, only bothering to answer the last two questions only, and damn, they were hard this time. The more he thought how this new boy got answers so quickly while he, the prodigy in Biology didn't...

"Time up!" Dr. Watson declared, walking the rows between his students' desks and simultaneously collecting the papers. Sherlock could see the incredulity plain as day on John's face upon seeing that his paper was completely blank. He simply sighed, assuming that Sherlock was pulling another trick to stay behind during his free time. Well, he needed to talk to him as well.

"Sir?" came a meek voice from Sherlock's side. Jim held out his paper, smiling sweetly at John, and somehow, Sherlock felt as if he was being paranoid, but there was a sickening glint of malice in Moriarty's innocent big brown eyes. John muttered something incoherent and collected Molly's paper too.

"Meet me after class, Mr. Holmes," said he sternly, managing to keep his voice even. Sherlock knew better, "Go to hell."

John turned around at him in astonishment. Sherlock had _refused_?

"Excuse me?"

"You can't make me, professor!" said he, and stormed out of the room. John simply sighed exasperatedly, and looked at Molly for help or some sort of explanation. She simply shrugged her shoulders.

Sherlock turned around the corner, and retreated to the gents' lavatory till the whole lecture room, and particularly Molly and Jim had vanished. He had felt Jim give an involuntary start near him, and somehow he felt that it was better if Jim didn't know anything about their arrangement. Something was not right, and taking precautions never hurt, did it? Upon seeing the coast was clear, he peeked his head into John's lecture theatre, and then barged straight in, his eyes shining endearingly with happiness.

"Hey," he managed croakily. John looked him up and down, and smiled, a relaxing departure from his stern lips and eyes before, "Sit down, Sherlock."

Expecting something more intimate from him, Sherlock's hopes were dashed when John held up his test paper, "What the hell is this?"

Sherlock crossed his arms and folded his legs, "Test paper, don't state - "

"I'm not joking, Mr. Holmes," John snapped, "I'm trying my best to ensure that you don't waste your life, the least you can do is - "

"I topped," Sherlock reminded him, "Again. Anything else?"

John propped his forehead between his fingers and shook his head, "Not for long, Sherlock. James is an equally brilliant student," Sherlock knew who he was talking about. He knew. James Moriarty, the prodigy in mathematics and every subject that existed on the face of the earth. What a boring person!

"I thought you weren't allowed favouritism," Sherlock observed with a slight smirk, while trying not to be annoyed that Jim's name had to come up between their cherished little meetings.

"You're not my favourite, Mr. Holmes," John shook his head, standing up in his seat, and rubbing the chalkboard clean, "I - "

"Then who is it?" Sherlock asked, and the swift glint of eye was all that he got as a warning before Sherlock moved his lithe figure smoothly off his chair and around to John's side of the desk. John tried to move away, make a valiant effort to create space, but then his back hit the cold chalkboard behind him and all he could do was press against it, with Sherlock's odourless breath falling softly and headily on his face. It was hotter than what John imagined in his dreams, "Is it that girl," he could feel Sherlock's words branding themselves on his skin, "the girl who shoves her breasts in your direction all the time, or is it that tall lanky boy Isaac? Or is it Molly?"

"Mr. Holmes - " John leaned forward on his own accord, looking from his eyes and to those distracting cheekbones. Sherlock drew away, seemingly satisfied, leaving John with an awkward boner as he tried to hide himself behind the desk, but he suspected that Sherlock had already seen it.

"There. You said it," and with that, he strode out of the room, leaving John burying his face in his palms.

* * *

It was after a week that John decided that he had had enough of Sherlock's daily games.

Now, the new boy Jim was a part of their group now, and John tried to ignore it during the class, but his teeth clenched on their own accord when he saw them sitting together, almost pressed side to side. John knew that there wasn't enough space on the last bench, and he wondered why Sherlock did not come to the front benches. After all, it would surely avoid the congestion and it also was a lot closer to John than sitting at the back -

Oh no, he did not just think _that._

Why he felt like that, he had no idea. It was not like he had some claim over Sherlock. He was his student, and yes, sometimes (twice a day) he had frankly disturbing and arousing dreams about him, and John tried not to think that he was a bit too old to be having wet dreams about a boy ten years younger than him... but still, what the hell was Sherlock playing at? Was this his pathetic plan? To make John jealous by hanging out with a boy who seemed attracted to Sherlock but the way Jim's gaze lingered on him when he looked away? Well, it wasn't working, and John tried to come up straight and tell Holmes right on his face that he could shove it up his impertinent, self-centered arse.

Thinking about his arse certainly did not help. John shook his head as if aiming to clear his head with that.

Big whoopee, so that was the genius called Sherlock Holmes' grand plan: seduce John, and then make him jealous? John did not realise why Sherlock was so bloody persisting about this. Maybe because he was refusing him so much... yeah well, today would be the last time he was going to refuse Sherlock bloody Holmes. After this, even if Sherlock decided to hang himself, he will not care. He will not let himself and his mediocre life get in the way and the progress of Sherlock's life and career. He was going to ask him to stop following him everywhere, he needed to stop staying after class, stop texting or calling his mobile, stop following him to the cafe, and stop ordering his favourite salami sandwich. He kept repeating them in his head over and over again.

He banged furiously on Sherlock's black door, so hard that the brass letters of 221B could come falling apart.

"Go away!" came a voice that was unmistakably Sherlock's, "Mrs. Hudson isn't here!"

John simply sighed, and took out his phone. He just couldn't take it anymore.

**_I'm downstairs._**

He typed it, and sent it. Sure enough, the door opened and Sherlock was there in his pyjama pants and his blue-dressing gown wrapped across his body. He looked puzzled as to what John was doing here, of all places. John tried not to swing his fist into his cheeks, and willed himself to stay calm. He acted like he owned him, and now he simply was wondering what the hell John was doing up in there in front of his flat.

"Come in," Sherlock offered, and John refused, running through his mind the various reasons but now, his original crusade was lost as he fumbled in his mind for the reasons.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's frosty out there."

John wanted to tell him that he would rather freeze to death rather than... and then he saw Sherlock barefooted, and decided that Sherlock wouldn't want to have the conversation there, "Alright."

Once the door was closed behind them, Sherlock waited patiently for John to start, and John almost wished he had brought hint cards along with him to help him along.

"Sherlock... you... you need to stop this, alright? Now, you're playing with not just my life, but your life as well. You should understand..." he raised his voice when he saw that Sherlock wasn't taking even one inch seriously, "you're almost being a stalker."

"You like that," Sherlock slumped back against the banister of the staircase, "I see your cheeks flushing with colour every time, and believe me, I don't do anything that you don't want me to - "

"Oh yeah?" John challenged him, "You think so? Do you think I wanted to do this, coming out in this horrific weather to confront you, to give you an _deadline - _"

"A deadline!" Sherlock scoffed, imitating him and John cut across him, "Don't you dare ignore me _this _time! You want to know, Sherlock Holmes?!" John finally snapped, after having tried to be patient with Sherlock for months, "You want to know? Yes, I care! I care about you enough, far too much deeply than _you _will _ever_ realise, and I'm not going to let myself sabotage _your_ future _because_ I care for you, do you get it? Nothing more than that, do you hear me? NOTHING more than that!"

He paused from his outbreak, and took a deep breath at that, looking down to control his anger. Finally, Sherlock spoke.

"Any chance you've had anything to drink today?"

"SHUT UP, Mr. Holmes!" John snarled, "What do you think you're playing at?! You think you can just try and seduce me - "

"Oooh! You make it sound so conspiratorial," Sherlock sneered, and John would've thrown in Sherlock's direction the first thing he could've lay his hands upon. He simply shoved Sherlock up against the wall angrily.

"You will leave me alone, Mr. Holmes, and none of your mind games work on me. You don't know the first thing about me."

This particular remark struck home, as Sherlock's expression hardened. "I have always known you better than you know yourself," he spoke, straightening up and taking a step towards him. "And I always will."

John jerked back, his eyes widening, feeling bewildered at the space between them decreasing rapidly. "You're a fool," he spat, turning away.

He felt Sherlock's hand grip his wrist. He tried to yank himself free but Sherlock's grip was surprisingly strong. He pulled him roughly around to face him, this time his eyes burning, the veins standing out like whipcord, his neck muscles tautening deliciously and his lips pursing. He was so close to him, and since the first time he had come here, he saw the enormity of everything, and how everything else seemed so much smaller, so insignificant in comparison to it. Panic and jolt shot through him as the look on Sherlock's face became mingled with something approaching desperation and urgent need.

"What... are you..." John managed to stammer, while the muscles in his mouth rapidly shut down as Sherlock leaned forward. He now couldn't pretend anymore that he hadn't wanted this, he couldn't pretend anymore that he had come to simply ask Sherlock to back off, because Sherlock would never back off... that's as far as he had known him, and deep inside, he knew that his visit would be pointless, but nevertheless, he had come, hadn't he?

Without warning, one of Sherlock's hands suddenly tightened around the nape of his neck and forced him forward. A second later, John's mouth came abruptly into contact with Sherlock's warm, humid mouth and inside of him it was as though every emotion that had been kept locked up in Pandora's box were now free to wreak havoc. He felt like he had hit his head on a boulder, and was now dead somewhere in a field where cows and the police were brooding over him.

Sherlock's hands clamped around his waist and his fingers sunk into the fabric of his jumper under the jacket, forcing him harder against him and seeming not to care whether he was hurting him or not. John's hands had somehow found their way into Sherlock's hair and he was clinging so hard to him that he was sure it must have been painful. Even if it was, Sherlock did not complain as he kept assaulting his mouth violently, and in a moment of weakness, as John's knees gave away at the intensity and somehow found their way between Sherlock's legs, and were now rubbing against his growing hardness painfully.

He no longer pretended to himself that he didn't know this was here where it was all headed, that this had all been inevitable from the start.

* * *

**One of the readers had asked for a slow build... but I thought that life was too short for it, and frankly, I've been building them since the last thirteen chapters with an intervention, a date (study date) and an award function, and even I was starting to get frustrated with John at this point... so here's to John coming to his senses finally.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Author wanted to try something else. Sex, sex, and sex... if you can stand reading it. Basically porn with feels. Not that much feels. But feels-ish.**

**Will do edits tomorrow.**

* * *

The one thing John had fought tooth and nail for, it was all crumbling away as he kissed Sherlock back, clinging on to him desperately for life. He found himself tearing at chunks of his hair, at which Sherlock's mouth only succeeded in bruising his lips as he turned them around, and in a second, pinned John against the wall, splaying his hands on his chest. John couldn't seem to understand how it happened but first he was in the doorway, yelling at Sherlock to leave him alone and the next thing he felt was his body being pushed back, backward against the wall, with Sherlock's grip on his waist so hard that John was sure he was going to leave purple bruises next morning.

Oh Lord, the next morning.

But John did not have a mind to think about such unimportant things when he felt Sherlock gasp in pleasure against him. John wanted all of him, and then more, and it was so hard not to have him then and there. He felt it against his knee, Sherlock's burgeoning arousal pinned against it. He wanted him back too, he wanted _this_, and that was enough confirmation for John. Unintentionally, John pressed into him harder and opened his mouth against his closed lips. Sherlock's kiss screamed of inexperience, but his eagerness to show John that he wanted him back too, that he wanted to be fucked so hard that he left him with a permanent limp, made up for it.

"Upstairs," Sherlock gasped, his breath hot and thickly laced with arousal, and sending an impatient jolt straight to John's cock, "Now."

No. John did not want to go. He wanted to rip Sherlock open there in front of him, right at the foot of the stairs as he would watch his flushed chest fall and rise rapidly, as he would hear the breath escape his mouth needily. That would be glorious.

Nevertheless, John pulled him down to stop him from talking and opened his mouth against his, delving his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth. He could sense a little hesitation on Sherlock's side, but as John licked the inside of his lower lip like just a brush, he couldn't help but hum pleasantly in John's mouth, the vibration sending a fierce jolt of electricity and arousal racing through his whole body, and lighting points throughout, as if all the sensitive spots that had all been connected together were all giving out because of the soft hums and coos Sherlock was making inside John's mouth.

If John had the ability to think, he would certainly have thought why he wasn't born gay after all, because nothing, _nothing_ in the world could match the feeling of Sherlock's pinned against him, grabbing around for him like a drowning man, like John was everything that he had. John's hands slid lower and lower until they stopped at his waist. He felt Sherlock's hips buckle weakly against him, and then, before he knew it, he had grabbed two handfuls of Sherlock's arse, massaging it, forcing him deeper against him, not caring whether it hurt him or not. Through the thin material of Sherlock's pyjama pants, the fabric didn't feel like a barrier anymore. Instead it made Sherlock's breath hitch deliciously and gasp into John's mouth, as if surprised at his initiative and this time, his tongue met John's right where his lips ended and his began, entwining together as John turned them around, and threw Sherlock (gently) against the wall, effectively pinning him.

Even while making out, they were going to fight and argue, and John was deliciously receptive to the idea. Sherlock broke apart and smiled smugly, as if saying 'see what I mean?'

Sherlock took his jumper and his jacket off smoothly, and with a sharp tug, John tore the dressing gown away from his figure and kept kissing him deeply, while Sherlock tried to force him upstairs. It was hard, brutal, and as soon as they misstepped the first step, Sherlock could feel that he was falling down, collapsing right on the stairs, and he really did not care if he broke his hip, or maybe his vertebral column. He did not care if his back hit the stairs, or whether his head hit on the edge and he was now developing a clot somewhere in his brain.

Or maybe, he was just falling off a cliff. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected that the day John would be his that they would have to face such a serious crisis.

Reaching the bedroom was going to be a nightmare. Sherlock had half-a-mind to bugger him then and there, his physical need for John's body was sometimes so strong and so all-consuming sometimes that it scared him.

But then, he remembered that John might not be comfortable with the idea of penetration. Shame.

"No," Sherlock managed to breathe as they broke away again, "Not here." But John was having none of it as he shoved Sherlock painfully on his back. He lunged forward, and rejoined his lips with Sherlock's, pining their twin erections together. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder about how by simply kissing John he had developed a prominent bulge between his trousers.

Sherlock leant forward too, groaning and he really didn't know whether it was from pleasure or pain. Maybe both. But the only thing that mattered now was John's ragged breath falling on his cheek, and then stopping as if he had ceased to breathe, and his hands travelling over John's body, single bony fingers, each one distinctive from the rest. He was sure John could make out all five of them as they passed teasingly over his hardness.

John's mouth went dry at that, and he sucked on Sherlock's tongue hungrily, his hands tearing at his t-shirt as Sherlock's mouth engulfed his, and he felt the experimental press of teeth capturing his lower lip.

"John..." he moaned into his mouth, while his hands pushing at him, making him want to get up from the uncomfortable position. John did not want to get up. He seemed like he _wanted_ to make Sherlock uncomfortable, he wanted to get back at him for making his life bearable, for making his life a life, instead of drudgery. Sherlock did not want to break their kiss, even if it meant undressing John under him, even if it meant running his hands all over his chest, his nipples which he could feel through his undershirt. He wanted to tear it with the animalistic lust that threatened to consume him. He'd buy John millions of t-shirts after this, and God damn him for thinking so.

Somehow, they made to the first landing. John was surprisingly strong for him even with his short stature, as Sherlock dragged their bodies upwards, not wanting to let air come between the space between them, but instead of him being the horny teenager, John broke their kiss, but not the contact between their skin, as he dipped his head to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock knew that he had always wanted to run his lips there, he had seen his eyes dart to his neck many-a-times. John snaked his tongue out and sucked his earlobe as Sherlock stopped his crusade of reaching his flat midway and closed his eyes, biting his lower lip so hard that it drew blood.

"Yes..." he moaned throatily, his voice rumbling and making the skin and muscles of his throat vibrate under John's lips as he rubbed his smooth cheek against the crown of John's head. John left the contact from his skin, and looked up at him. He already looked like he was close to it, and without any hesitation now, he slid his hand down between Sherlock's legs, cringing at how wet and hard he already was.

He massaged his inner thigh while sucking on a particular patch of skin on his throat that he liked best, and Sherlock bucked his hips up, wanting more of John's touch. He was an anatomy teacher, for God's sake, Sherlock thought, and although he thought it wasn't going to hard for him to have Sherlock's debauched figure crying and pleading for him in moments, Sherlock was going to prove him supremely wrong.

"I... am going to shag you raw and _senseless_ against every surface in your flat," John warned, and Sherlock shuddered at the force and the earnest cruelty with which he used his words, so harsh that Sherlock felt like _he _had hit his head somewhere so hard that he saw stars.

John seemed like he has decided that he had had enough. He seemed like he didn't care if Sherlock's landlady came by and decided to throw them out or even scream at them for being pressed against each other, naked skin on naked skin. Oh, Sherlock could imagine the thrill John was feeling.

"You bad, bad teacher," he growled in response.

"Let's not... forget... the teacher... part..." John punctuated every single of his words with a moan.

In a moment of weakness, John's head slammed against the wall as Sherlock turned them around and pressed him against it, sandwiching him between himself and the wall. He shed his t-shirt as John felt his shirt buttons coming apart. His neglected jacket and jumper had been abandoned in a corner along with Sherlock's dressing gown as his put his mouth on the hollow between John's neck and his shoulder. He snaked his fingers into his hair and revelled at the feeling of ash blond hair greeting his fingers as he ran them against his scalp. He had never expected _that_ to feel so erotic.

"I won't," said Sherlock. He was pretty sure that if he kept this up all night, he would see John wake up next morning with serious amounts of welts on his body.

"Oh Go-uhn!" John's muffle cry rang out in the whole house, and it was truly fortunate that Mrs. Hudson wasn't there. With dizzyingly unerring accuracy, even though Sherlock had his eyes closed, his fingers reached for his left nipple under the fabric of John's undershirt and he gave him a pinch, "Christ, Sherlock!"

Sherlock simply snorted and turned him around to face the wall. Till then, he had let John believe that he had the upper hand. Not anymore.

In a second Sherlock pulled the undershirt over his arms, and John felt the hard press of Sherlock's erection against his arse. Unconsciously, he rolled his hips towards him, as Sherlock's wiry arms encircled him and he dipped his head in the hollow between his neck and shoulder and began pressing kisses there, kisses which slowly turned into nibbling and sucking.

"Oh, you bad _teacher_," Sherlock snorted into his damp skin mixed with sweat and his own saliva, "You've no idea how long I've wanted to do _this_."

"Did you, now?" John breathed, splaying his hands against the wall and letting Sherlock take full advantage of him.

"Yes," Sherlock's fingers reached out to grab John's hair and rest his head against his shoulder. John turned to him and Sherlock couldn't help but kiss him again. He could feel his eyes closing shut as he bent his neck forward on his own accord as licked his Adam's Apple, "But... you won't... like... hearing it..."

John sucked in a harsh breath and forced Sherlock's mouth upwards, guiding his lips for another kiss. but then, Sherlock did it again, however, this time his hands slipping under John's arms, fingers pressing against John's peaked nipples as he moved his mouth to a trickle of sweat marking a line through John's right temple. He licked it away.

"You'll come _shamelessly_ when you hear of it."

And before Sherlock could react further, John had pushed him against the wall. Sherlock yelped in an undignified fashion as his backside hit the stairs again, and as John climbed on top of him.

This was the start of something new, now away from all the rejection, and it was completely worth it, the start and finally being able to leave everything behind...

"Don't you _dare_ use that tone with me," Sherlock couldn't help but flinch as he felt almost like a helpless rabbit under John. Nevertheless, he reached out and pulled John on top of him. Their mouths collided with the force of a hundred steamers as Sherlock trailed his fingers over every single inch of skin, memorising the pattern, but at that moment that seemed futile and frankly unimportant with his brain working at half the normal capacity.

Sherlock didn't remember how, but his back hit the door of 221B, and he pushed John away inside the flat. Almost immediately, their bodies collided with a thud. This was the beginning of everything, with the feeling of John's hardness poking into his inner thigh as he felt John's fingers brush against his waist and his thumbs disappearing under the band of his boxer briefs.

"I don't want anything between us anymore," Sherlock breathed in his ear. John couldn't reply except for a sound, followed by a "Stop!" as Sherlock sucked a bright red bite mark he had left right under his jaw.

"I," lick, "don't," nibble, "want," suck, "to," bite. Sherlock threw him on the couch, just to admire the view. This time, John didn't hesitate when he saw Sherlock's erect cock in his eyes. Instead, he pulled him on top of him at once and turned them so that Sherlock was at bottom.

"People... will see," said he in his best professor voice.

"Let them," Sherlock pulled him down and opened his legs slightly in response to John's experimental hand travelling downwards, "They'll see how... un - gay you are - oh God!"

"I thought... God was a ludicrous fantasy... designed to provide... a career for the... the family idiot..."

"Keep saying that," Sherlock breathed as John bent down to attack the tendons arising on his pale neck, feeling the hot damp mouth on his skin and his hot length poking into John's thighs, "And I'll make it sure that even the halfwits ... ugh, J - ohn... see that... the shape... corresponds to... m - lips... only mine..."

"Stop... talking," John growled.

"Sure, _professor_..." said he in his usual simpering voice. This time, to Sherlock's utter foolishness (and John wondered how a genius like Sherlock could be so foolish during sex), he tried to throw John off him in an effort to gain dominance, they both ended up on the hard floor greeting them head first. Sherlock was the quicker one to adjust himself on top of John and letting his fingers roam southward, way too southward.

"You had... come for this, hadn't you?" Sherlock asked with a smirk as John opened his mouth for a kiss, eager to stop talking and get down to "business". But Sherlock, with his smartarse mouth was always eager to talk, "You knew... this was going to happen... you knew... Mrs. Hudson won't be there..."

"I'm... stop, Jesus Sherlock, the students will see!" John's voice rang out clearly at Sherlock's attempts to make the bite into a hickey, even as he helped Sherlock take his denim trousers off.

"Wear a turtleneck," he snapped, and migrated lower, until John knew that his fantasies were coming true. Sherlock's mouth stopped near his navel, and his fingers reached out for his cock straining out through the material of his boxers.

"Don't... say..." John began in an effort when he saw Sherlock's mouth opening and he expected him to comment on his cock, and John had no idea what one could say and also, he had no idea how to answer to Sherlock's rude comments. But what he hadn't expected was Sherlock opening his mouth and lowering himself to replace his palm with his mouth to lick his erection through the fabric of his boxer briefs.

"Finish it," Sherlock demanded as he slid his fingers into the waistband, and John felt himself go fatally red, go embarrassingly hard (as if he wasn't hard already) as he saw Sherlock's tongue dart out every now and then and tease him.

"Oh... _God_, Sherlock - !"

"_Finish_ your previous sentence!" Sherlock deadpanned with ragged breaths in between, while John tossed his head back and groaned. He gave John one of those deadly smirks as he began removing those briefs to finally, finally be able to see him under him, the teacher struggling to finish a sentence from his well-trained, self-conscious mouth.

His fingers curled around the base and he shuddered involuntarily at the thought that he wanted John to fuck him with _this_ balls-deep in him. Nevertheless, he kissed the head, feeling almost intimidated at the new sensations, better than what he had felt in those lonely showers thinking about the body hidden beneath that shirt and modest cardigan. He wrapped his lips around it as much as he could and took the head in his mouth.

John rocked his hips up at that. Sherlock took the unspoken hint and went deeper, abandoning his own member lying neglected between his legs as it gave a twinge for attention. He felt John's fingers burying themselves in his hair, and for a split second he thought that John was going to push him away, like he sometimes did in his fantasies. But instead they buried themselves deeper and pushed Sherlock's head deeper into him. John was withholding his sounds, and he could see his fingers clenching uncontrollably beside him, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to hear John.

"I want to... hear you," he spoke breathlessly.

John couldn't reply, simply pushed Sherlock's head so much harder that he was beginning to gag on it.

"Oh God yes," John let out a strained choke, as Sherlock slowly began to mimic the actions John had performed inside his mouth earlier. Never in his wildest dreams he had imagined that John would acknowledge so fast and so quickly.

Over days, it had been something else he had been feeling for him, something unnamed, charged, even _magnetic_, and now that his mind wasn't surrounded by filters or barriers, he could see it plain as day. Somehow, even though it was completely irrational and stupid and even if the chances had been one to billion, somewhere along the line he had fallen in love with John and everything of his, everything that he was, even before he had kissed him, or maybe even before their "study date".

Somehow, in the midst of all the flirting and everything, he had fallen in love with him. And it still felt like it had felt months ago, when John had broken up with his annoying girlfriend... but now that the realisation had dawned upon him, it felt... strange. His heart was beating faster than it had when he had had the longest wank of his life, or even when he had felt John's lips move in acquiescence against him. It felt the way like when a person was terrified, but instead, he was terrified of not going that way instead of the opposite.

He could feel John squirming under him. He was close, he was tethering on the edge, and hell, Sherlock hadn't even realised it but he was approaching his orgasm too. His fingers quickly went to his own cock and started inflicting generous amounts of massaging and kneading. He felt the vision go black around the edges, and bright at the middle as his seed burst out between his fingers and he stopped moving his mouth on John's cock as he felt his knees buckle. John gave an involuntary groan, and Sherlock almost felt like saying sorry to that even though he really wasn't in a shape to continue. If that was what love was going to do to him... he really had no idea whether it was good or bad.

Even though John's breaths could be practically heard on the street outside, Sherlock was still immersed in his own self-inflicted pleasure, and he didn't hear John groan. He had almost forgotten that John still hadn't finished.

"Turn!"

Before Sherlock could react, John had grabbed him by his hips and had turned him around so that he rested on his palms and knees. Suddenly, Sherlock felt like he couldn't just keep up, and although he was a sucker for speed, the rush of emotions through him was a fantastic blur and mess. It was not just erotic, it felt terribly terribly intimate. It came to him like vertigo, the overwhelming feeling of intimacy, the feeling of closeness with John. He knew that this wasn't hormones, because he of all people knew how chemicals affected the mind. This was much more, so much more than that. Miles above that, in fact.

He felt exposed, vulnerable with his backside on display for John. But much more than that, he could feel the sensation of John's naked sweating body pressed flush against his backside, of John's heart beating into his vertebra, into his spinal cord as John pressed frantic kisses on his waist and on his hip. Sherlock didn't know anything which could've felt more intimate that this.

"L - lube?" Sherlock tried to ask him in vain, but John was having none of it. He figured that John's cock was beaded and slick with pre-cum. It wouldn't make all that difference anyway. He forced Sherlock's legs apart, and urgently pushed his still-hard member into his tight entrance.

"Jesus, fucking shit!" He could hear John gasp behind him. That was the final warning before he painfully thrust into him. Sherlock felt nothing but excruciating amounts of pain, followed by John's hands kneading his softening cock now, trying to restore it back to hardness. He needed something to hold, the leg of the study table perhaps as John wrapped his arm around his waist and thrust deeper into him. He had always regarded sex as an unnecessary exchange of bodily fluids, even in his numerous fantasies with John on top of him, or John under him. But at that moment, he was nothing if not glad to be able to _feel_ John inside him and not with the barrier of a condom.

"John - !" His voice rumbled, and John pushed himself deeper inside him with faster, more aggressive strokes as they both felt unashamedly conscious of the slap and thud of two bodies being thrust together in more or less harmony, something that Sherlock was fairly adept at picking up. Sherlock lost count of how many times John had called his name while coming into his arse as he kept kissing him. Evidence that John treated him just as preciously as he did, as John, even in his dazed state (and Sherlock now knew how difficult it was for him to do it) he followed every single drop of sweat trickling across Sherlock's pale skin and he teased it, pressing soft, slow, deliberate kisses to him as he pulled out of him. Sherlock could still feel John inside him, and he had a hunch that he was going to feel that way for the rest of the week. John fell on top of him and this time, as their cocks were pinned against each other, it felt far from arousing. It felt warm, and grounding, and promising, the feeling of John's skin on his was familiar as if they had been together for years whereas in reality, they had known each other for only six months.

"I - That was..." Sherlock felt the compelling need to say something, but John simply brought his fingers to his lips to shut him up as they lay on the floor side by side in front of the two damning armchairs and the couch and the _open_ door, but John didn't notice that. And Sherlock certainly didn't want to ruin the moment of lying in John's sweaty arms by pointing that out. Sherlock snaked a tongue out bravely and trailed it over John's fingertips, kissing them tenderly, carefully as it it was an experiment, only that _John_ wasn't an experiment. This was real, solid, grounding and Sherlock couldn't help but revel in the feeling of Oxytocin rushing through him. He would've wanted to get up, grab a needle to collect a blood sample of it, but the alternative was much, much better: lying in John's arms and feeling his fingers trailing over his chest.

"You alright?" John asked, scanning his face for any discomfort. Sherlock felt his heart swell and his eyelids droop as he remembered the second orgasm that had torn through him. He grimaced a little, feeling his sore entrance with his fingers. He doubted if he could ever walk again and smile at the same time. He leaned in for a chaste kiss and John obliged while wiping the sweat away lovingly from his curls plastered on his forehead. Sherlock had never known John to be so rough and tender at the same time, or maybe that was just the mind-blowing, toe-curling sex that brought it in. God, the closeness felt good. So good.

"You... could've been... gentle," Sherlock removed his fingers to see a little amount of blood and John looked alarmed, "and used a condom... and lube ... and not torn... the tissue..."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be harsh," John looked at him guiltily, "But it was good?"

Even as they lay in the remnants of their orgasm, it was only Sherlock Holmes who could roll his eyes even in such a state, "Ow, I'm sore..."

"Stop complaining!" John shifted closer to him and spoke in a less—than—annoyed tone at Sherlock's usual narcissism coming through even after everything, "Don't tell me you didn't enjoy every second of that!"

"This isn't just _'ow, I'm sore'_ sore. It's _'__ow, I need to go to the ER and wear diapers for the rest of my life'_ sore."

They shared a smile at that, too spent to laugh at that. John gave him an affectionate squeeze, uncharacteristic of his usual strict—teacher demeanour, and Sherlock simply felt thankful that he didn't give up on John for all the months he had persuaded him for the what it seemed now as inevitable. He had always shirked away from sentiment, but now that John was here, his exception to everything he had thought himself to be, looking flushed and spent and yet so needy, he finally leaned in for it. Pure and simple, he loved John. He was in love with John, and he couldn't determine the exact moment even though he knew that it must have been months ago. That was a mystery he was willing to let go unsolved.

Nevertheless, his voice came out as snarky, an extension of the defence mechanism he had developed in his younger years, but now he wouldn't need it, would he? "What was that for?"

But John just took Sherlock's face in his palms and kissed his pale sweaty forehead tenderly, "You need to down the thermostat... and maybe replace the carpet," he replied with a smirk that Sherlock could no longer see.

And maybe, just maybe, John loved him back too.

"And you insisted you weren't gay," Sherlock exclaimed wryly. John chose not to comment, except for a vague "I'm not".

"You're gay for me."

"Maybe."

It was the best feeling in the world, as Sherlock closed his eyes to John's lips lingering over his forehead, his heart damaging his ribs permanently. He wasn't sleepy, not in the slightest. Even if it meant staying like that, God knew he'd want to be awake for the rest of his life. Even if it meant staying under a God neither of them believed in. He wondered if this was the best time to confess to John everything.

But he didn't as John opened his mouth for a kiss again. Tongues met, teeth clicked, mouths melted together as if he and John were fusing together by a strange composition of semen, sweat and intimacy, lips and fingers travelled over each other as John's smaller fingers slotted perfectly in Sherlock's. Holding hands, kissing slowly, honey-like slow, like they had all the time in the world. They did actually. They had all life in front of them. John gripped his shoulders and moved down to his throat, running his tongue over him, drawing small circles over and punctuating them with gentle kisses.

"Don't forget it, Mr. Holmes," said John, breaking away. Sherlock wanted to laugh quietly at that. He had always hated being calm and peaceful, and he had reason to suspect that John was of the similar species, but at the moment, when they were naked in every sense of the word, and with each other, together, quietude was much more favourable.

"What?" Sherlock came back to his senses, as he felt John's fingers teasing his inner thigh and palming his cock in a provocative manner. He tried to wonder if John had a kink of calling him Mr. Holmes instead of Sherlock, just like he had a kink of calling him professor. God damn him for being so dull headed in the matters of intuition.

"I meant it. Every surface of the house. _Raw and senseless, _Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock groaned and joined their mouths again. He was going to make John wear much more than a turtleneck.

* * *

This was the umpteenth time that Sherlock was groaning that day (well, technically that day because he and John had had quite too much sex past midnight), but this time, it wasn't from pain in his entrance, or the too hard bite under one of his nipples (John knew his body better than he himself did, but who could blame him? After all, he was his anatomy teacher), this time, the pain was in his head, and the only description which came close was that of a hangover, although he had never had one, but Molly always kept on talking about the graphic descriptions of pain she felt in her head...

Great! The one time he got to wake up with John sleeping beside him, his covers still warm and ruined from their activities last night, he had to think of Molly of all people.

Well, he certainly couldn't think of Mycroft. Molly was a better alternative.

Which reminded him that she had to come pick him up. He was thankful for that. Maybe he would have a morning go with John. He smiled to himself stupidly at the idea, and looked at the ceiling. Everything seemed different now. Just one night of sex and passion and his world had changed, the way he looked at things had changed. He knew that now he wouldn't be able to look at the couch or the kitchen table or the floor or even his bathroom walls without thinking (and smiling to himself) about what had happened there. His whole flat would remind him of John and the way he felt inside him. As if that was even necessary.

The night, 31st January, was the most memorable night of Sherlock's life. John had thought that he would tell him to back off, and instead it had only served as a catalyst hurtling them towards the inevitable. He could still feel John pumping inside him, hitting his prostate with the accuracy of a surgeon cutting through the layers of his patient's skin. It had been simultaneously too much and yet it was completely satisfying, and yet, it made Sherlock want more.

He turned to his side, and saw no one there. John wasn't sleeping beside him. It had been quite sometime ago that he had gone out. Maybe for a shower. Sherlock smiled to himself at the thought of a shower, and maybe another round of mind-blowing sex that John was certainly an expert at.

It took him some time to realise that the flat was completely noiseless. There were no sounds of a shower running. Sherlock decided to investigate about what John was up to.

He looked into the shower. There was no one. The previous bout of worry that he had felt when he hadn't seen John sleeping beside him was starting to return. There was no one in the sitting room, no one in the toxic kitchen, no one except for Mrs. Hudson's singing. She had arrived, and then Sherlock saw that his blue dressing gown was lying on his armchair. Only his clothes. John's clothes were gone. John was gone.

Why would he do that?

Sherlock looked around his flat to process the changes that had taken place. John had got up, he had not even showered. He had simply got up, fretted for sometime in the sitting room, and then, he had gone. Away.

He tried to subdue the panic rising in him. There was a perfectly logical explanation to it. John was a professor, maybe he had been called, maybe he needed to report early for something.

Sherlock tried to shrug it off like it was supposed to be alright. John was a professor, and he had to live with it, now that John was living with it. But he couldn't rest the deep unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach.


	16. Chapter 16

As John got off the bus, and walked slowly towards the university campus, he felt like his feet had turned to lead, heavy and slow, dragging up to his workplace, where he didn't want to go at all. From a distance, the building looked accusing in its whitewashed walls. John felt like every eye was darting past him and then doing a double take at him. Turtlenecks weren't very popular, and worst, they didn't help hide the angry hickey that lay right under his jaw.

He felt like the whole world knew about what had happened yesterday, as if everyone had seen him rush towards Baker Street and disappear into 221B, only to see him walking out of there in the morning with the sex hair and all his buttons done in the wrong places and his belt in his hands. He thought he could hear people whispering conspiratorially about what he had done there, and he wished nothing but to shut his ears in the hope that it would become bearable white noise.

He couldn't bear to stay one more minute in that flat, with Sherlock's suffocating presence beside him, with Sherlock's nose nuzzled in his hair and John's arm around his waist. He felt stiff, having not moved in his sleep throughout the night. He had opened his eyes and for one second, he had even moved closer to the comfortable warmth radiating from Sherlock's body.

And then he had realised what he had done.

His instincts developed from the one-night stands in university had prepared him for not giving out a start, but nothing could've prepared him for the sight of Sherlock's marble like skin peppered with bites and kisses and the gentle slow, streams of air coming from his lips and nose. Sherlock had never seemed so... human, so vulnerable before, and John shuddered involuntarily to think that it was all because of him.

He had extracted himself from the bed at once, and not dared to look anywhere at the bathroom, or the kitchen, or the floor or the sofa. Good Lord, what had he done? And that too, in his sobered and fully conscious state?

Then he realised that in a few minutes, Sherlock would be up too, and that thought that made him barge straight out of his flat and into the streets, on and on till he found a taxi. He hadn't bothered to put his clothes on properly, all he wanted to, needed to do was to get out of there, walk and just walk away, measuring his gait to the surging thump of his heart as if he could deny the agitation in their pace.

Everything had changed, and now outside St. Bart's, John could feel the unfamiliar vibes from the world around him, or perhaps the echoes of the vibes that he was sending into the space around him. He knew that now, he would never be able to look at Sherlock the same way anymore. He would take one look at his throat and he would remember how it had felt beneath his lips. He would see his fingers and would surely remember what they had done to him. The images flashing through his head would recount the previous night, a night that should never have happened, a night he would give anything to take back.

He walked into the campus, and although no one was really looking at him, John could feel the intensity of their gazes behind their averted eyes. He quickly rushed into the nearest staff lavatory and put his bookbag down, staring at his reflection in the mirror, his pristine hair and his well ironed clothes trying their best to hide every single patch of skin under them as much as possible. He sighed and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and his forefingers. He looked like a stranger to himself, hell he _was _a stranger to himself now, because never, ever in his right mind, he would've slept with Sherlock Holmes.

He saw his face in the mirror, which had become red just at the thought.

"Hey," came a honey-like baritone voice from the doorway as the door shut behind the newcomer, "I've been looking for you all over."

And before John could react, Sherlock had crossed the distance between them and taken John's face in his palms, kissing him deeply, full on the mouth, melting and desperate lips moving over his, like dark chocolate mixed with slow poison in equal parts. John felt frozen at the intimacy of the act, his body had become as rigid as stone, as frozen as ice. He could feel Sherlock's tongue flicking across the seam of his closed lips as he kept kissing him, before breaking away breathlessly and joining their foreheads.

"Sherlock..." John began while the rest of his body was still paralysed, unable to shove him away, but Sherlock cut him off by running his thumb over his cheek.

"I understand why you left... you're a teacher, and I'm not complaining," said he quickly in one breath, smiling and planting one last kiss on his lips. John could hear utmost relief, and more than that, the desperation and plea in his voice _'don't you dare ever leave me like that'_ and the way he was trying to make him understand through those last four words that he was okay with everything as long as they were together, as he kept on babbling, as if the whole building would collapse on him if he stopped talking, "Anyway, I've kept Molly waiting at a distance and she won't let me in her car if I play truant on her with you so... I'll see you around."

And with a wink, he sauntered out of there, leaving John weak in his knees and his resolute to make his heart hard stronger than ever. He hadn't realised that he had stopped breathing for the entire time during which Sherlock was there.

* * *

Just a few minutes before the end of class, John walked the rows between his students' desk, collecting the papers as he went by and dictating the assignment for the next week. "As essay on the functions of..." his voice trailed off as he looked up and toward the door.

Sherlock was standing just outside his classroom, bookbag slung over one shoulder, hair mussed, expression desperate. John gulped, and forced his eyes away. He knew what was going to happen, and this time he wasn't going to be shut off by a kiss. It was high time that Holmes learnt where his place was.

"So, as I was saying, the essays on my desk on Monday, everybody clear? I'll see you all next week. Dismissed." John managed to keep his voice even, but only just. As the students filed out, groaning over grades and worrying over the immense workload over the weekend, John kept his chin tucked to his chest, walked to the front of the room, and gathered his things. One by one, every student got out and exited the classroom. He didn't trust himself in a classroom with Holmes anymore, or anywhere that surrounded them with privacy and four walls.

He heard the door open, and he clenched him fists. He could feel Holmes coming closer to him, his fingers picking at the strap of his bookbag, as if restraining himself from physical contact with John. John forced himself not to look up at him.

One more step, and he snapped.

"What are you doing here?" he seethed between near clenched teeth. It was all he could do not to shove Sherlock, not to swing his fist hard at those ridiculous cheekbones. It was all Sherlock's fault, all of his fault, "I've another class coming in the next ten minutes, and I need to eat—"

"Yes… but I wanted to see you." A wrinkle formed between Sherlock's brows. He licked his lower lip and then bit it. John could see that he was taken aback with the less-than-warm welcome, "I want to thank you for the last night… it was beyond perfect, John..."

John shook himself. He looked at Sherlock's face, expression expectant and without remorse, his eyes positively glowing with happiness at the memory. He felt sick to his stomach.

"Last night was a mistake; it's wrong, Mr. Holmes." He tried to control his breathing, the volume of his voice. He tried not to think. "You could get expelled, and I could be sacked!"

"But—"

"No buts, Mr. Holmes." John tightened his hands into fists and kept them clenched at his sides as he settled down in his chair, his body positioned away from Sherlock. "You don't come find me, you don't talk to me, you don't follow me. We're done, alright? This—it's over. It never happened. Do you understand me?"

He did not look up to see Sherlock's face fall, all light leaving it, but he could hear his broken croak. John pretended not to hear it, "John...?!"

He could hear it over and over in that monosyllabic word: why he hadn't complained yesterday, or the time before he had let Sherlock suck him off, or the time before he had pumped into him like a bulldozer, or even the time when he had very willingly undressed him and thrown him on the floor to kiss him...

"Listen!" John looked up at him, all cold eyes somehow burnt around the edges in warning fury and voice seething with anger, "I'm sorry for... whatever happened. It was a mistake, and it should never have happened."

"So... you're just—you're just walking out? One night and that's it?" Sherlock's disbelieving voice came out, sounding like fingernails scratching over chalkboard.

He could hear Sherlock swallow something dry and painful down his throat, and he felt the same thing stuck in his as well. He could see Sherlock laying his heart bare for him, only to be broken and scarred. How could he have even expected that Sherlock would forget it all in a night? All this could've been avoided only if Sherlock had not gone so far with him. It was all his fault, John kept telling himself. He closed his eyes, wishing that this was all a bad dream and that he would wake up in seconds.

That did not happen.

"Just... go, please."

Without waiting for Sherlock to go, he unpacked a salami sandwich and began munching on it hurriedly. Sherlock looked at it, and then at John, and then at it, and then at John, back and forth, and then after what seemed like eternity, and even after John had finished his snack and turned to rub the chalkboard, Sherlock still didn't move. It was only after the class started to fill and one of the seniors smacked his head with a textbook that made John turn to him instinctively, that Sherlock turned around and walked away, out of John's classroom, and presumably, hopefully out of John's life.

"He's such a weirdo," one of the boys quipped.

"Weirdo? He's fucking messed up!"

"I heard he has those secret cams in the men's toilets where he spies on us, you know."

John tried to ignore his heart telling him to shut those boys up with a detention for the entire term. He turned his back to the class, removed his glasses and exhaled shakily as he stared at the chalkboard, trying to ignore his treacherous bleeding heart. Sherlock had walked away, and that was it, then, he thought. Sherlock was gone. He should be relieved, really. It was for the best, all of it was for the best. For Sherlock, and now he won't have any stupid professor walking around with him, wasting his time.

After all, he had done the right thing, and Sherlock needed to do the same too.

Nevertheless, he pressed his fingers to his eyes and stayed quiet a long time, even as the noise behind him died down, the one in his ears didn't. And if a tear escaped the left one, well, no one would ever be the wiser. Because he never cried. Never. Ever.

He silently wiped the single tear and turned to his class with that ever-stern, impassive expression on his face. Out of the corner of the blurred vision of his left eye, he could still see Holmes sitting in the last bench.

"Boring!"

* * *

That day, Sherlock did not attend any of his lectures. He didn't care that all the teachers were marking him absent for every class, that Molly and Mycroft would be asking him endless questions afterwards, and that he would be dragged to his parents' house for the rest of the year. He didn't care about anything anymore. He flicked the lighter on as he settled onto the concrete at the roof of St. Bart's, lighting his eleventh cigarette and watching over London, the only thing that remained unchanged through everything that had happened to him.

This was what Molly had always warned him about. She had been worried sick, scared for this, and now it had finally happened and he hadn't thought it through. Mycroft had practically _begged_ him to stay away, Molly had told him to be careful, told him that this was his teacher and that it will _not_ work out. There's only so many times a person could take rejection, and after a night that was the highest form of perfection, the best thing that could've happened to him, only for it to be called a mistake... there's only so much one can bear, and the man he loved saying that he was sorry for it was not one of them.

He drank in the cigarette smoke with supreme effort once again, flooding his lungs with cancerous soot. It was a mistake for John, the idea of it being a mistake, the idea that something that to Sherlock was so perfect, so beautiful, was being apologised for and asked to be forgotten was heart-wrenching.

He wasn't going to beg anymore. He wasn't going to fall to his knees in front of John and tell him that he loved him and that he wanted to be with him more than anything and that there was nothing else he had wanted so deeply in his life. He wasn't going to. Hell, he was done with telling John that they should be together and now John had made it clear that he didn't want to be. He had his pride, and at this point it was the only thing he had that would keep him going.

He was not going to beg.

Although he would, if only he knew that John would say yes back.

He closed his eyes, not really feeling the cold of February on his skin anymore. He looked up to see a jet flying up in the air, with a hundred people suspended miraculously in mid-air as the jet left a trail of gas stream behind, marking its path. He closed his eyes feeling chilling wind blow through his curls...

John. John on top of him. Naked, flushed, panting, sweating, delectable, beautiful. John inside him, his hands on him, his lips on his, on him, his back, his kisses trailing up his spine, up his chest, nibbling at him...

No. Love was a mistake, a defect like he had always believed it to be. Love was a lie ordinary people believed in to convince themselves that they were special, that they won't have to die alone. He had been weak for that one moment but that had been the urges of his transport, and not the infallibility of the fortress of his mind.

The irrational pain in his chest was so sharp that he could feel it with every quiver of his beating heart. When he looked at a person, he always scrutinised them sharply, leaving no detail out or unattended. But that day, when he looked deeper into John's eyes, deeper than he had ever looked, he had seen what John considered him as: a nuisance, an unnecessary and uninvited addition to the daily problems of his life.

He felt like he needed to throw up, but only it would not come up his throat. It was going to stay in him like a parasite and it was going to eat him away, slowly and gradually and painfully.

And so he forced it down, and down, by sucking in the soothing cigarette smoke.

Sherlock opened his eyes to see nothing in front of him. The phone buzzed in his pocket for the umpteenth time, probably texts from Molly, and several missed calls from Mycroft and Molly. He lit his twelfth cigarette and drank the smoke in, clearing his mind.

But John had kissed him in the morning. He had felt John's pulse beneath his fingers. Elevated, almost frantic.

Correction. He had kissed John, and John hadn't kissed him back.

His phone rang again, and this time, Sherlock picked it up, "What?"

"Sherlock," Molly's worried voice came out, "Where are you?"

"Nowhere," Sherlock growled into the phone, trying his best to keep his voice detached, "I'm studying, so stop disturbing me." With that he cut the phone. He knew that Molly would now keep asking him questions on questions, but he didn't care. He was an expert at turning a deaf ear to people, and even with her crying, he could ignore her to a point. His phone buzzed.

**_I'm going to lib to study with Jim. Ttyl_**

At this, Sherlock wanted to get up, wanted to go to the library, wanted to lead her away from him. Truth be told, Sherlock did not like Jim around her, or around him in that fact.

Then he remembered that he was banned from the library. Another memory came to him.

_Oh Lord! That felt so good!_

_Jesus! You're such a troublemaker..._

_She's the only one I like arguing with. Always gets so moved by what I say..._

He had no idea what was going to happen to him over the weekend. What he was going to feel over the weekend locked up in a flat that only served to remind him of that one night.

The overly romanticised concept of broken hearts might be a start.

* * *

Sherlock walked towards the parking lot with Molly, barely listening to her ranting about how amazing Jim was and how brilliant and moreover, caring he was. He could barely keep up with it, how every single thing reminded him of John and how they had spent time there: the parking lot, the entrance of the university campus where he and John had first bumped into each other (quite literally) and he had taken his business card, where he hadn't even realised how this man was going to change his entire life.

Suddenly he felt a soft grip on his wrist. Molly was calling him to attention.

"You told me you would call yesterday, Sherlock. Why didn't you...?"

"I was... busy," Sherlock said quickly, in the hope of not saying something else. At this point, he really did not want to hear from Molly about how right she was and how she had warned him to be careful because he was his teacher.

But Molly's attention, and her gaze, was held not by his words, but rather at the beginnings of a love bite hidden under his jumper. Sherlock followed her gaze and tried to cover it up, at which Molly only stumbled backwards, her voice full of disbelief, "No... you possibly didn't..."

Sherlock didn't reply, although he knew that she had had an idea of one side of the story, a part he was rather masochistically fond of.

"Sherlock, you complete...! You didn't _tell_ me!" There was a beginning of a foolish grin on her face. Sherlock tried not to swallow an imaginary dry-pill down his throat. He smiled to himself incredulously. He was feeling nothing, nothing at all, as opposed to how he felt when he smoked thirteen cigarettes in total on the roof of St. Bart's. He felt completely numb, like something deep down inside him already knew that John and he could never be together, and that he had already made his peace with that.

But it wasn't the same way when he felt like he wanted to be around John all the time, just watch him and his absurd, tiny quirks, small flaws in his perfection.

"You were the one who said that no one ever tells their friends that they were having... sex."

Molly might not be as intelligent as Sherlock was but she did happen to notice the way Sherlock uttered 'sex'. She chose not to dwell at it. First times could get a little uncomfortable. She chose not to ask. Sherlock would tell her when he needed to, wouldn't he? She was his best friend, after all, and she told him everything.

"Yeah, but..." she gave him a girly and the frankest of smiles, a smile that usually made Sherlock give her a half-smile back, but this time it made his stomach twist and turn painfully as she pinched him playfully on the arm, "I'm happy for you, you know?"

Sherlock laughed at that, a hollow, weird and alien version of the real giggle he gave. He knew he sounded weird, and that normally, he wouldn't have graced _that_ with even a response. But Molly seemed not to notice as she continued about her own going-ons with Jim. Sherlock loathed it, he hated how something as human as jealousy licked up his spine as he listened to her playing happy couples with Jim Moriarty. If his mind hadn't been brimming with John, he certainly would've told her that the boy who she was seeing was gay.

"Hey, erm..." Molly began, "I'm... there's this... thing, I'm - I can't come tonight, I've got a - "

Sherlock nodded, knowing what was coming next. Going by the way Jim and Molly were speeding up, there was only one conclusion he could draw. He simply tried to sound preoccupied with a hum and looked out of the window, where he knew John would be sitting, waiting for his bus.

Although John did not meet his eye, that did not stop Sherlock from gleaning one last glance of him for the day.

* * *

He knew he wasn't supposed to follow John. He knew that.

It was just that John was everything he wanted to see and to be around, and John wouldn't talk to him and John didn't look at him, and it was all Sherlock could do not to scream how much he loved John, right there in the middle of class with Jim sitting beside him, arm brushing on arm.

The only thing that kept him from doing so was to allow himself the simple relief that came in watching John.

He watched John chatting with other professors in the bus stop in the afterhours. He watched John ordering coffee and his favourite salami sandwich at the campus cafeteria. He watched John lick his lips as he listened to other students' queries and he watched John fumble with the change in his pocket when he stopped to donate money to the student government's charity drive.

Sherlock knew he wasn't supposed to follow John, but if he didn't, he was sure he'd do something else. Something much worse.

He sat at the back of the classroom, elbows bent, forearms dangling carelessly off of the front edge of his desk. He didn't mean to stare; he couldn't quite help it. The only time he was allowed to look at John was in class. So in class, he looked.

He watched John carelessly, not caring if anyone called him a weirdo. He didn't know what he was trying to achieve by that. He simply stared listlessly ahead of him. John had stopped acknowledging his presence completely, in the class, in the cafeteria or even when they passed each other in the corridors, pretending that they had never made love. He looked beside him, and saw Jim and Molly kissing passionately as John kept his back to them. Although Jim was very nice and very respectful of Molly, he couldn't say the same for himself. Every time their eyes met, he could feel blood travelling backwards to his heart, cold and icy shards piercing and melting into him. Had he been in his right mind, he would certainly have voiced his concerns to Molly, knowing that she was the one who trusted in him, in all of St. Bart's, in all of the world, his only real friend.

Not John.

Because John had broken his heart and his trust in a way no one could have. He could've just said that he wanted sex and nothing else, and Sherlock would've gladly said yes to it, yes to everything for him. No, John had not trusted him, and in the end, he had ended up shattering Sherlock's too.

He would've been alright with just a one-night stand, if only John had informed him before. No, John had screamed in the four walls of _his_ bedroom that he wanted Sherlock in a way he had wanted no one else. He had said that, and even if it was in a daze of chemically-induced bliss, it still wasn't okay to be just pretending that this was all over.

So, he didn't tell Molly that Jim was gay.

Until that day. Unable to take any more of their romantic nonsense, he turned to them and declared unfalteringly and needless to say, loudly, "Gay."

The class turned around to look at him, and Sherlock could see out of the corner of his eyes that John had kept his head down, avoiding any sort of contact with him. Molly and Jim broke away before anyone could spot them, Molly turned to Sherlock, and frowned, who had his eyes resolutely fixed on Jim. Jim's eyes widened in surprise and a much smaller portion of victory for an infinitesimally small moment, and if he didn't give Sherlock the creeps, he would've claimed that it was a trick of light. He could practically feel Jim's eyes raking over his skin, crawling under it. It both unnerved and thrilled him, to his shock.

"Sorry what?" Molly asked, her eyes narrowing.

Sherlock cast a quick eye at the rest of the classroom, some of who were watching the three scholars with indifference and interest alike, expecting something humorous to come out of Holmes' mouth. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He wasn't their private jest monkey.

"Nothing, erm... hey," he smiled tightly at Jim, who grinned back in that same excited, dumb way, too dumb for a student like him.

For the whole class, Molly refused to indulge in playing happy couples with Jim, in order to ask Sherlock what the hell he meant by all of that.

As the class ended, Molly and Jim separated, and she set off with Sherlock, not talking to him for the entire time. At the end of the day, she grabbed Sherlock roughly by his arm and led him to someplace where no one could hear them. She did not go over to the car park with him, as if still debating internally whether to allow Sherlock into her car or not.

"What was all that about?"

"What?" Sherlock tried to ask faux-innocently. If this was the only thing that could distract him from his thoughts about John, so be it. And only heaven help him.

"Don't pretend, Sherlock. Don't think I haven't noticed. You don't like Jim."

It was framed more like an accusation than a question, one that Sherlock did not deny, "Last time I checked, I thought I could have my own opinions about a person."

Molly smiled disbelievingly, "Well, then you're wrong. He's not gay! We're together!"

"You think?" Sherlock scoffed, "Look at him, working-class fellow with that level of personal grooming! You're blinded by love. That's what happens when you're in love. It blinds you!"

He bit his lip before continuing. Molly had heard him, and he knew by the look on her face that she knew. Not the whole story but she had an idea.

"Sherlock...?" she began confusedly, "What's—?"

But she could never speak further, not with sirens flooding through the gates. In an instant as Sherlock and Molly ducked away from the scene, professors were rushing about, and what seemed like an ambulance parked in front of the main entrance up the driveway. Sherlock's eyes darted to everywhere, and for the time, his mind was pleasantly distracted from John.

"What is it?" she whispered to him, as if he would know, "Is someone hurt?"

"Ms. Hooper! Mr. Holmes!" came a voice, the voice of Professor Abbott, "To the library, please!"

And before they could react, the teacher was shoving them in the direction of the staircase.

"What's happened?" Molly asked him urgently, "Professor, please."

She used that one voice which never failed to attract the attention of a man interested in playing the knight in shiny armour. Professor Abbott shook his head as he stopped at the first step of the staircase, looking up at them warily.

"Carl Powers... there's been an incident."

* * *

**I'm sorry for the angst... but you know, whenever an author introduces a villain, it means she's aiming (AIMING) for a happy ending.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Virtually no knowledge of biology so excuse some little ignorance on my part.**

**If this were an ACD story, I'd name it "The Adventure of The Missing Pen", but since this can never match the calibre of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories... it's just Carl Powers' case for me =P**

* * *

"Carl Powers... there's been an incident."

Molly's eyes narrowed, and Sherlock dismissed it at once. Not that he had anything _much_ against Carl Powers, but he was a little bully who always targeted Molly, and especially him. Well, it wasn't _his_ fault that his brain was superior to his, as he told Molly once when she explained that it was just jealousy and that he should pity him if anything. If Powers only knew how difficult it was to be in the possession of an unstable and all-observing mind like Sherlock's, if Powers only knew how difficult Sherlock's childhood and teenage had been as he had struggled with the jagged edges of his mind, forcing himself to sleep while trying not to listen or hear or see everything around him, he would've pitied him instead.

"I hope it's something bad," Sherlock rolled his eyes, the momentary distraction wafting away, "I hated him anyway."

"Sherlock!" She chastised, "You shouldn't say something like that! We can only hope that he is alright. After all, he's one of the best Mathletes in the country, he's a star student!"

Sherlock finished with a vague murmur of, "Council worker." Molly sighed in exasperation, and rushed after Professor Abbott, who was shooing the remainder of the students who were still there in the campus to the library. Sherlock looked away at once when he saw John join him. He couldn't believe what he was doing. He was hiding from John and he had no idea why. It was just that every fibre and nerve in his body screamed that he did not want John to see him and he did not want those empty eyes looking at him like Sherlock was the bane of his existence, empty eyes hovering over strict and thin lips curled into a sneer.

Lips that did nothing to resemble what they were when lust-reddened, helplessly pressed between Sherlock's own.

Nevertheless, as Molly approached the professors, Sherlock watched John's eyes narrow and then dart from side to side, almost as if looking for Sherlock around. He watched her talk to them for further information. He wanted to think that John was looking for him, that he wanted to see Sherlock too, just as Sherlock wanted to see him. He wanted to believe...

In the end, it only left him feeling empty and hollow. He simply waited at the corner for Molly, concentrating on the number of steps laid out in front of him and the places in which dirt had accumulated. Soon enough, Molly came rushing up, panting, "Come on Sherlock, let's go, they aren't telling me anything."

The library turned out to be full of students whose classes were still going on when this "incident" with Powers took place. Many seemed delighted at the prospect of getting to meet each other, and Sherlock simply shook his head at how unfortunate these people were, deriving happiness from seeing each other.

Like when he saw John, and Sherlock tried not to think about that.

He stood outside the library, letting Molly go in. He wasn't fond of crowds, if he could help it. He disliked the overwhelming inflow of data whenever he reached a populated room, and therefore he chose to stand outside. For him, data served the purpose of enlightening him instead of overpowering him with its sheer abundance. And at any rate, he was banned from entering the library as well. He stood, waiting for her impatiently, tapping a vague rhythm on the door with his fingers and exchanging glares with the librarian.

After sometime, Molly came out to fetch him, "They're... saying something happened to Carl when they were having this test in Math—like a heart attack."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and then he cackled sarcastically, "Ooh, _what_ a mystery! He was the size of a whale, and he had a heart condition! He obviously would have a heart attack! Served him right—Ow!"

Molly elbowed him right in the ribs, "Sherlock, you really shouldn't say something like that..."

"Eh..." Sherlock began doubtfully, because he really believed that Powers needed something like that to set him right on the track, but Molly cut right across him.

"No, Sherlock, NO!... Anyway, they're not letting us out of here until the whole place's clear of sirens. You coming in?"

Sherlock peeped inside the already full room and the old librarian shouting on top of her voice to treat the books with care and gentle hands, "You think?"

Molly followed his gaze, and grimaced, "Probably not."

They stood outside, watching the rush of various... there were no medical personnel? Sherlock's eyes narrowed at that. St. Bart's had its own medical facilities, and even the most stupid of people knew how to administer a CPR, well if not properly, but still.

"You know," Molly spoke after sometime, "It really is odd... Carl, he was healthy enough. I mean yeah, he did have his meds for high BP and similar stuff... but he was very regular about them. Never missed a dose."

Sherlock looked at her, "How do _you_ know that?"

"You remember that one time he had cornered us near second floor stairwell... His watch went off and then he walked away, remember? I saw him taking some pills, might have been his meds. He actually had an alarm set on his watch for them right on time."

Sherlock had no recollection of this little incident whatsoever. He thought that he must have deleted it, and anyway, it was Molly's task to remember such insignificant things, not his.

Before Molly knew it, Sherlock had left her side and was running downstairs. As far as he remembered, Carl Powers might have been the size of a seal with more fatty content than water in his body, but if he suffered from the risk of a heart attack, he must have had some sort of medication, won't he? After all, he was a star student, as Molly put it.

"Sherlock!" Molly called after him, and before she knew it, she was following him frantically. Sherlock had this weird tendency to always leave her abandoned in a place and Molly had to make sure that he remained in her line of sight, lest he might do something stupid.

Sherlock climbed down the second flight of stairs and from the window he peeped outside. There was the coroner's van near the entrance. Carl Powers _died_? In the middle of a test, how unimaginative!

Somehow, he must have worded this aloud because as Molly came skidding to a halt beside him, she tutted disapprovingly, "Don't want anyone to hear you saying that aloud, Sherlock... what's this?"

She spotted the vehicle too and gasped in horror, "What's the coroner doing here?"

Sherlock simply shrugged his shoulders, even though it was quite obvious what it meant if the coroner came around, "Let's find out."

Before she could properly refuse him, Sherlock had set off again with the vague murmur of "Mr. Smith's room". Molly took this as a request to follow after Sherlock and try to stop him, which she knew she won't be able to. Sherlock had a lifelong fascination with dead bodies, and even she did, she admitted that to herself, but he... well, he was just Sherlock. His fascination approached something alike to cold-bloodedness.

They came to a halt near the men's lavatory and Sherlock and Molly crouched near it as they saw Dean Hope enter Mr. Smith's, their calculus professor, classroom. Molly kept whispering frantically in his ear, "Sherlock, please let's just go back to the library, we're not supposed to be here! Sherlock, please let this go, we really shouldn't be here!"

A surprised voice came from behind them, one that send shivers down his spine when he heard his name being called, "Sherlock? Molly?"

They turned around to see Jim's large brown eyes fixed mostly on Sherlock, assessing him. There was a flicker of malice in those sinful eyes before they turned surprised again, "Jim!" She hugged him and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, having forgotten about all that 'gay' drama from before, "Jim did you hear about Carl P—?"

"Yeah, I did," his Irish lilt seemed less obvious today, "God knows why we're still here. We're adults, not kids who start crying if someone died, right _Sherlock_?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed momentarily as he tried to understand why that particular remark was thrown in his direction. He clenched his teeth together. His name sounded like a taunt every time Jim used it. Before he could ask him what exactly he meant by that and more importantly _what _exactly he was doing there, Molly interrupted, "Jim, you really shouldn't say something like that!"

"But Powers did die," said he, and Sherlock found himself looking at him distrustfully. But Molly spoke before he could say anything, "See there," Molly pointed at the teacher assembled outside the lecture hall and turned her attention back to Jim, "You really shouldn't have said that Carl died. Now he really died."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance and turned to Molly, "Stop saying 'died'. At any rate, you should be happy. You'll get to see a real dead body."

Jim chuckled darkly, which made Sherlock's head snap back towards him warily, "What are you doing here anyway?" he said, stopping short at Jim.

"I could ask you the same question," said Jim with a sneer, "Enjoying the show, are you?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he assessed him, this hand, his fingers, and finally the state of his clothes. He was alright, but when he looked up at Jim, there was that same malicious lingering smirk masked by a facade of innocence and devotion to his best friend. Ignoring him, he turned to Molly who had been trying to see what had happened till the time he and Jim were exchanging scrutinising glares, glare that seemed to touch Sherlock everywhere as it travelled up and down his figure and made him recoil.

"Give me your reading glasses."

She scowled as her mind tried to keep up with him, "_What_? Sherlock, we're... you're not thinking of going there, are you?"

"Reading glasses," he extended his palm to her, "Now."

Even as she complained and kept on telling him that he really should listen to her, and even as she called him a hundred thousand renditions of 'lunatic', she eventually did hand over her reading glasses. Sherlock did not notice Jim's face light up with fascination as he slicked his hair down, put Molly's specs on and stood up, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. She tried to tug at his jumper but he dodged away, forcing himself not to look at Jim, "Coming?"

"No! Sherlock, I know it's hard for you, but please don't be an idiot—"

He simply rolled his eyes, "You're boring," and before he could add that "John was more interesting" he stopped himself and sauntered past them, slouching his shoulders. Something felt odd, and he never could pass up the opportunity to check out a dead body, couldn't he?

Most of the professors were outside, discussing the incident in hushed tones. Sherlock smoothly slipped inside the lecture room where Powers was laid down on the ground and Mr. Smith, the ruddy-faced Mathematics coach looked like he had just finished with the CPR, although he must have been declared dead a time ago. Sherlock cast his eyes around the room, at Powers, his eyes resting on his bookbag and his desk. Sherlock's eyes squinted closer, his meagre disguise allowing him to stand unnoticed. This was odd, very odd.

"When are we going to send the students back?" came John's voice out of nowhere, and Sherlock went rigid right there, blood standing still in him. His eyes rested on his blond head and he ducked away, forcing himself to look at Powers' dead body while John's mellow voice still danced along the edges of his ear. He sucked in a breath down his dry, impossibly dry throat as adrenaline built inside him dangerously, filling him to the brim. He wanted to run, run away and he didn't know why. It wasn't like he needed to hide from him, because he wasn't the one who was wrong.

"I don't know," whispered one of the professors back at John, "I can't stay here. I need to go."

As the professor moved away, Sherlock moved away too, just to be out of John's line of sight, but too late. John had already spotted him. The frown lines eased away for a moment, and Sherlock could see that his breathing had picked up. It reminded him of the other times that that had happened, and he forced himself to look away, but he couldn't. He simply stared at John for a few more seconds. He hated this silence. He hated the way he wanted to bask in John's attention for however long he could. Sherlock wanted to enjoy it, to savour it, this momentary reprieve from the game of not acknowledging each other. John wasn't approaching him, but he did send another professor his way, to his annoyance.

"Mr. Holmes, what are you doing here?"

The attention of the entire room was caught and all heads turned towards him, all except Powers and John's. To his relief, the coroner arrived and he ceased to be the centre of attention for all except the teacher who had confronted him.

"His parents?" The coroner asked.

"They're coming over from Brighton. They've been informed," Dean Hope supplied helpfully. Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. They were treating this as a regular death, whereas it clearly wasn't.

"Bit weird, isn't it?" He called out, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see John's eyes all attention on him, like he was some lecturer instead of the student who he had made love to a few weeks ago. He wished to know how John could manage it so easily, all the ignoring and pretending that nothing had passed between them.

The coroner turned to him with narrowing eyes and then looked around at the other professors for an explanation, "Beg your pardon?"

Sherlock sucked in a breath and continued, relying on the snippets of information Molly had provided him with, "He was on his meds regularly and yet he died of sudden cardiac arrest. Isn't that odd?"

This time, the Dean simply grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him outside angrily, "Mr. Holmes, this is not a time—"

"Oh, please!" Sherlock protested, "Check his watch. There's no way he could've died of a sudden cardiac death. His watch has an alarm telling him to take his meds right on time," he extracted his arm from there and marched into the classroom dramatically and showed them the pills stuffed in his bookbag.

"Mr. Holmes," came the voice of one of the other teachers, "Stop the fuss—"

"There's something clearly fishy about it!" Sherlock protested as he saw Powers' body being led away on a stretcher; it was clear as day, why could they not see it, "He was writing his test, wasn't he?" He picked up the papers and showed them the half-full page in Powers' handwriting, "Where is the pen with which—?"

"It's right here," said the coroner, but Sherlock cut across him.

"No, that's black ink. I'm talking about the pen with the blue ink, the one with which he has written the minority of his text in. Where is the pen?! This isn't some accident that you can forget about, this is foul play!"

He stared at all of them expectantly, hoping that he had got his point across. Out of the corner of his eye, Molly and Jim had arrived too, and were hidden at the back of the group, keen not to be seen by the professors. Where was her moral support when he needed it? But no one seemed to think the disappearance of the blue ink pen was important. It was weird enough, alright, but it did not seem to have any bearing with Powers' sudden lapse into cardiac arrest.

He wanted to turn to Jim, and to elicit at least his support that Powers' death was mysterious indeed. He was intelligent, he must be able to see through it, won't he? But something about the way he had been staring at Powers' dead body with his large dark eyes told him that he would be better off without Jim's cooperation. Suddenly Jim looked up and through his eyes, he seemed to express a twisted brand of manic contentment, abruptly followed by cold blankness. Sherlock knew that he was putting up this sentiment in his eyes, because deep down inside, if he was really dating his best friend whilst he was so clearly gay and so shameless in his twisted attraction towards Sherlock, he must be a heartless, emotionless man.

Sherlock dared not to admit that, but it did intrigue him. A lot. He didn't know what to make of it.

Finally, Dean Hope simply waved the coroner away and turned to Sherlock, "Mr. Holmes, I think it would be wise if you—"

"It's obvious, Mr. Hope! Why would it go missing of all things?!"

This time, he looked at John for some sort of support. John said that he was brilliant, he said it so many times. He could influence the other professors into thinking that Sherlock was right, that there was something wrong. But John simply looked away, his palms hidden behind his back. Sherlock groaned in frustration. How could he have even expected a professor like John to help him, the one who was so obsessed with keeping his own job, a job he wasn't fond of?

But no, he couldn't, he didn't want to have John supporting him in front of Jim. For some crazy reason that he could make no sense of, he wished John to stay shut and at least look like he didn't matter to him in front of Jim.

"Perhaps," to Sherlock's dismay, John began, "It is a bit odd—Powers _was_ very careful about his medication, wasn't he, Abbott?"

Professor Abbott nodded too, but thankfully, no more development followed after that. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek in annoyance and backed off, making his mind up inwardly to get to the root of it. If they needed proof that he was right, he would give them, even if proving was just a detail. Because he was right, and after Sherlock had been proved so spectacularly wrong about John, he needed a chance to prove to the world, to _himself_, that he was always right. That he was infallible to sentiment and everything else that was put up against him.

"Doctor Watson, please lead Mr. Holmes to the library, and make sure that he stays _there_," the Dean snarled as Powers' body was taken away. Sherlock stole one look at John, and instantly sauntered out of there. He could not manage to be even within a metre of him without his brain going into Fight or Flight. Molly and Jim had already walked out of there and were waiting for Sherlock in their previous hiding spot. Sherlock tried not to look back at John, or in front at Jim. If it wasn't for the distraction that the incident had offered, Sherlock would have done something even he did not have the measure of.

As he had expected, John hadn't followed him. He cast the distracting thoughts aside and fixed himself on the matter.

Why would someone hide the pen? Or had it just got lost?

Jim's distracting presence beside him wasn't helping at all.

* * *

This was utter hell.

Sherlock remained seated at the far end of the pub, with Molly somewhere with her snobbish, wannabe girl friends, getting plastered for the night. He didn't understand. There was no point in consuming the obnoxious disaster that was alcohol. He was frankly happy staying all by himself in Mrs. Hudson's and Mrs. Turner's tiresome chatty company in 221A and playing them little pieces that he had been composing while thinking up the Powers' mystery. For some reason, he seemed convinced that there was an external factor involved in this. It would've taken Powers to go off his meds for his heart to have failed so spectacularly...

And now he was here in a place reeking with booze and sweat and _people_ in general. He wasn't bored, but he wasn't over-the-moon either. His fingers were longing to press the call button and ring Mycroft up, but he hadn't done that because he couldn't take the risk of his fingers instead calling John on their own accord.

The night could only get worse from there on. The low, ceaseless thump of the music was audible even as he went outside for some air and (some smoking exercise), making his whole frame pulse uncomfortably. He didn't understand how people could _stand_ it. Even if it was icy outside and even if the night air bit into his skin like a blade, it was so much better. He buried his hands in his pockets, only to remove them to light his second cigarette. He could remember the time when he had been hanging out with John at the bus stop near the uni, and then walking under the rain, feeling John's eyes graze his body...

It had been three weeks since he had spoken to John at all, since he had walked out of his classroom after he had realised that John's attraction towards him was purely carnal and that after he had his fill, he had lost all his interest in Sherlock, well... going by the way he was successful in pointedly ignoring Sherlock's existence at all.

It was all contradicting. He had no idea why John was doing this. He could see how John always changed around him, and logically it had always seemed to be a little more than simple sexual interest, in fact a _lot_ more. For the first week Sherlock had been too angry and upset that he had let sentiment, silly stupid sentiment which had led him here in the first place, muck his thoughts up.

But he missed John terribly, and he pretended that he didn't, and that it was simply a stupid phase that had to go away anyway, and even after he had tried to gatecrash in his parents' house when he decided that he couldn't live in 221B with John haunting him for every second he stayed there. Mycroft knew what had transpired, and he had simply shook his head in dismay, making Sherlock feel worse, like a failure.

But John had wanted him. He remembered all those little moments. It didn't make any sense.

Those little moments. Sherlock now thought that he knew, _understood_ John's abnormal attraction towards him. John loved risk, something he had always been denied by living the life of a professor. It was an act of rebellion, being a professor and still hanging out and flirting with his student, having sex with a man when he clearly was as straight as a cane. Just a distraction from his boring life and his boring girlfriend and his alcoholic sister and perhaps the rest of his alcoholic family as well. The attraction he felt towards Sherlock was really just the lure of novelty and of danger, he reasoned.

John's voice came back to his memory. Sherlock had crossed the line of 'okay' and unknowingly wandered into the territory of 'too much', and he knew that. John had _said_ that he regretted it. All was said and done.

"Sherlock..." Molly approached him, looking surprisingly sober. Sherlock trampled the cigarette under his feet at once as she came closer and tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, "Why're you out in the cold? Come inside."

He simply hummed in response, and stood there steadfastly, wishing that she left him be so that he could have another fill on the fag. Like that was going to happen. Fate knew that he was Sherlock Holmes, and it could never be so kind to him.

"Sherlock, seriously..."

"Break it off with Jim," Sherlock spoke in a low voice, knowing how lame and moreover imposing he sounded, "and save yourself the pain. I know you like him, but... he—he likes men. He's gay, Molly."

Molly sucked in a sharp breath. Sherlock had expected her to storm off with a curse or something and leave him alone, but instead she wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck and took his right arm, "Let's walk."

He looked at her weirdly, at which she only smiled and said, "We've done this before, remember?"

He looked around skeptically, "Molly, you—"

"Yes, I know that we might catch flu, now walk!" she commanded in her most imperious voice. Sherlock acquiesced, and they started towards any direction aimlessly. They used to do this long time ago, long walks around London, places only Sherlock knew and had seen. They went back and forth the streets and Sherlock committed to his memory the various changes that had taken place in the city.

"So... let's talk about the elephant in the room, shall we?" She began, but Sherlock cut her off.

"If you brought me out to talk about Dr. Watson, you're mistaken."

She frowned, "I thought you guys were on first-names basis."

"I thought you and Greg were in a relationship, and not you and Jim!" He countered back bitterly and looked away, biting his lip. Something that he had buried deep in his heart was now coming out, but he had not yet cried over it. He knew it was unhealthy not to cry it out, and yet he had simply pushed it down and down with cigarette smoke and violin and elementary experiments like testing for acid using litmus paper. But now that Molly was trying to take it out and force him to revisit the memory of how John had taken his virginity and then resolved to forget about it next day, it was ten times worse. He didn't even know why he was crying over such an absurd and human concept as virginity. He didn't even know why he was crying at all. He just wished for the temperature to drop below zero, so that even if treacherous tears came to his eyes, they would freeze right then and there.

His logical mind came up with the information that the freezing point of tears, not being pure hydrogen hydroxide, was a little lower than zero degree centigrade.

Molly buried herself deeper in his side, and unconsciously, Sherlock leaned in for the human comfort. He didn't need comfort, but having Molly beside him instead of John... he wasn't going to _think_ about John.

"You should never keep sadness buried deep inside you, Sherlock," she advised, and for a moment, Sherlock thought that even she was crying. But she wasn't, and he thanked God for that. She was stronger, better than this, "You should cry the hurt out. Always."

"Did it hurt?" Sherlock croaked, wondering whether he was the only person who cried over a non-existent relationship, or did everyone cry over breakups.

"Very. It wasn't even his fault," she whispered, looking away, not wanting Sherlock to see her very red nose.

A cab or two passed them, but Sherlock took no conscious notice of that as they passed a general store and a homeless man perched outside it. Sherlock looked away. Why was everything in the world reminding him of John? Why couldn't they remind him of... Mycroft instead?

"Did he... did you guys fight?" She asked him, as they stood there, bathing in the lights of the store and looking at the street. They began walking silently again. It was odd, walking in London. If you were alone, everyone took note of you, never really let you be alone because you stuck out like a sore thumb, like a white between the countless blacks, whereas if you had a partner to walk with you, you were solitary in midst of the city, public yet anonymous.

He only wished for it to be as simple as a fight.

"No," he said simply, making it sound like homework, "He came to my house, to tell me to back off. I kissed him, one thing led to another and the next day, he asked me to forget about it."

He _was_ about to say that, out of pure bitterness, when the first word died in his mouth. Molly turned to him, "You know, you can tell me anything. I'm your—I'm your..."

Sherlock waited patiently for her to complete, but she never did. She just looked at him like she couldn't believe him after all that they went through together.

"You're my what?" Sherlock asked her, and for a moment, she felt compelled to ask him whether he even returned what she felt for the boy she had helped through in his junkie days, "Sherlock, am I your—your... best friend?"

Sherlock frowned at her, letting go of her arm, "Why are you with me?"

"Christ, Sherlock," she shook her head, feeling gut-punched at being rejected by her best friend. How could she explain it to him, something that she was sure that he won't understand, "don't change the topic—"

"I mean it," Sherlock deadpanned, but his tone gradually growing brittle and unsettlingly clinical, "Why are you with me at all? Because, you see, there are certain expected patterns of behaviour often observed in the children of alcoholics—"

"_Christ, _Sherlock take a break—"

"—and I know I am not exactly _normal_," Sherlock continued, riding over her, his voice becoming even more cold and distant, "I was an addict, and I'm a sociopath, and I know I used to have sudden mood swings and periods of depression, which clearly, _clearly_ brought out the caretaker impulse in you, and…" He stumbled over his words for the first time, pulling viciously at his scarf in compensation, "I know I am _broken_, there's no point pretending otherwise. I don't work right, and possibly you just wish to fix me like your family."

"Sherlock, seriously stop labelling yourself as a machine—"

"Is that—am I—am I a _project_, to you? An experiment in guise of the label of _best friend_?!"

Molly stopped halfway, when she realised that those words weren't addressed to her. Not really. Because none of _her_ parents weren't alcoholics. Her uncle was.

But she just stood there, watching Sherlock unload all his repressed feelings on her. It was vaguely disconcerting. She was just used to the unfeeling Sherlock so, _so _much that now that Sherlock was angry, really, _really_ angry, it was like watching a demonstration of how all the valid laws of physics could fail in the wake of a fundamental law of nature.

When he finally finished, she heaved a breath and stepped another step away from him, giving him some space for himself, and looked into his pale face. Knowing that this was enough talk for Sherlock at the moment, she changed the subject, "Why do you hate Jim?"

That seemed to catch him unawares, "Sorry what?"

"You... seem to, you know, you don't like him. Is it because...?"

To her surprise, Sherlock rolled his eyes rather dramatically, "If you remember, I like...d a man too," in fact love him, but Sherlock did not want to say that to her.

"No, not that," Molly shook her head, ignoring the tentative past tense, "just even on the award function evening, you seemed to want to maintain a distance from him..."

"I never said I didn't like him," Sherlock spoke brusquely, implying the most untrue meaning he had ever... implied. But Molly simply gave up instead going with, "Look, you're my best friend, and you _don't_ have to say it back, I completely understand if you don't want to, and if there's anything you need—"

But Sherlock was simply staring at her blankly, "Why—why would I need anything _from_ you?"

She shrugged, "No reason at all... just... save it for a rainy day, I guess?"

Silence fell. A car passed by, blaring its horn noisily, and Sherlock saw how different it was from Molly's signature blaring of her second-hand car's horn. Molly's blood was pounding in her ears, rushing like a waterfall, and Sherlock looked at her as if he'd been struck, and the world just spun dizzily around them, threatening to tip them over the edge.

"That would be eight more months, Molly," Sherlock said, causing them to burst into aimless laughter. He had forgotten how it used to be, without John, without coming up for ways and flimsy excuses to talk to him, without thinking about him and how being near him felt like. He had forgotten that there was another person in his life.

They sobered up a little, and Sherlock lent her his arm, which she took and patted slowly, "I put up with you, you big, impossible man-child. I deserve some recognition."

Sherlock smiled a little, endearing half-smile, "You—you want this? You want to be _my_ friend?"

Molly looked at him, willing desperately for him to see how much she meant it. "With all my heart, Sherlock. Or all my brain... if that's more trustworthy to you."

Sherlock blinked slowly, as if stunned, even as they walked on. "You mean to say—if you were given a choice—if you had the chance to let this all just be—a, a phase, or a mistake, or some temporary aberration—you wouldn't take it?"

Molly stared at him in disbelief. How could Sherlock be so confused about her when he used to be so sure about his stupid professor?

"You wouldn't just... walk away?" Sherlock asked, barely audible.

It struck her that he needed assurance from her after everything. It wounded her a little when she saw how little he trusted her.

"You think I would? After... school, after everything, Sherlock?"

He straightened up, realising that he had her complete and unwavering loyalty, "I think not."

She smiled, a tight little smile, "Good, now that we've settled that, you'll buy me anything I ask you to. You have your brother's credit card, don't you?"

Sherlock snorted at that. They circled around a tree and she pointed at a novelty store, smiling wryly, "Anything, alright? Even if it is fake spiders or cockroaches."

"Why bother about the fake ones when I can get you real ones—"He began, but she screwed her face up in disgust, "Ew, Sherlock! Stop it!"

"Funny, you know, you want to be a pathologist, perform autopsies and you don't like cockroaches..."

"No one _likes_ cockroaches, Sherlock," said she, rolling her eyes at him and entering the store with Sherlock behind her. She rang the bell, "Even you won't like them if I slipped them into your food."

"Just the thought I needed to encourage me to have some food."

"Touché," she smirked, and Sherlock cast his eyes around the store, and then at the items stashed inside the transparent glass boxes and shelves. Fake guns that were actually lighters, lighters that shot water when pressed. Sherlock had been almost fooled by Molly by that once, thanking his brain which reasoned why Molly would gift him a cigarette lighter when she was so much against smoking. There were hula hoops and Frisbees, and other novelty gifts that she always had a particular penchant to. Without Molly's attention, he picked up a click pen as the owner continued to amuse her. A mischievous idea infected his mind, and he poked Molly on the arm to show her that. Without really paying attention to him, she took it in her fingers and pushed the retractable cylinder inwards, which turned out to a shock for her, quite literally.

Sherlock doubled up from laughing, forgetting that he was an adult. She deserved it, she completely did. Because if she indeed was his best friend, she had to put up with this in turn as well. Then, to his and the shopkeeper's horror, her face blanched and she clutched her chest, while the pen still remained in her grip.

"Molly?!" Sherlock called out in confusion as her fingers, as she started trembling, almost shaking. And then, before she could stop, Sherlock rolled his eyes and spoke, his bland voice still betraying that one second of panic he had felt, "Seriously, stop it. You're fooling no one."

She started giggling and handed the pen back to Sherlock, "You think, I, a collector of novelties, will be fooled by such a petty little thing? Sherlock, I'm disappointed... God, your face, I think I'm having a real heart attack now!"

Sherlock froze at her words, "Say that again."

The shopkeeper did look like he was going to have a mini heart attack, but nobody paid attention to it. Molly's smiles and laughter faded into oblivion, "Sherlock, what—?"

He simply shook his head, "Say that again."

"I—I... erm, I'm a collector of—"

"No, not that," Sherlock shook his head, "Repeat your words from one minute ago, _exactly_ as you said them."

"I'm... disappointed... I'm having a heart..." and then she looked down at the pen in Sherlock's palm, "Sherlock, this is crazy."

But his face simply lit up with excitement, "I think not."

* * *

**Let me know your thoughts on this :)**


	18. Chapter 18

**I am uploading this because I'm the happiest person on the earth now, and that's why this chapter is the longest I've ever written and on the bright side for Sherlock as well.**

**Little to no knowledge of biology, so please excuse any errors here.**

* * *

"Don't run away so fast, Sherlock. It's unbecoming of you."

Sherlock's skin crawled at the sound of the melodic voice. He tried to quicken his pace but the heavy books in his arm were starting to spill and he came to a stop there. It had been a few days since he had thought that he had found out the clue to the mystery of Powers' death, and he had been convincing his impossible family to request for an autopsy, even offered to finance for it, but they were adamant for a proper burial. Sherlock tried to tell them that there was something off with their son's death, to which they had only replied that it didn't matter to them anymore because it wasn't going to bring their son back.

Sherlock wonder what the hell that was supposed to mean. Fine, Powers was dead and he wasn't coming back, but that didn't mean that they should let the perpetrator get away, did it?

Nevertheless, Powers' parents had agreed to an autopsy the next Sunday afternoon and they had denied Sherlock's attempt to finance it, thankfully because of Molly's persuasive words.

"What?" Sherlock didn't try and spin around to face Jim, "What are you doing here?"

He came to a halt right in front of the lab, only yard away from the room in which John must be in. He heard Jim come to a halt behind him. He smelled like a medicine cabinet and his own strange brand of the alluring deodorant which he wore. Had Sherlock not known who had been approaching him from behind, he would've thought that it was someone who had jumped right out of a TV commercial.

"I feel so rejected, Sherlock," said he breathlessly, the mirth never leaving his voice. "Why won't you be my friend?"

Sherlock turned on him. He found himself closer to him than he had anticipated. Jim seemed to have been standing little more than an inch behind him. His dark eyes flashed with amusement as Sherlock took a clumsy step back and a book slipped out of his arms and fell to the floor with a dull thud. He didn't dare bend down and pick it up.

"I try so much, Sherlock," he shook his head dejectedly, "Give you things to play around with, little puzzles... but I'm now starting to be worried that everything I'd heard about you was hype."

"Hype? What are you talking about?" Sherlock snapped, and then it struck him.

"Did you do it?"

Jim's smirk widened. Sherlock tried to suppress a shiver. Jim took a step towards him, the light fell over his face and Sherlock could see his eyes.

"Did I do _what_, precisely?" He asked, batting his dark eyelashes and taking another step towards Sherlock. He could feel his warm breath on his lips, could smell it, _taste_ it, but he didn't back away. He looked down at Jim with his resolutely cold, stony-hard expression. Sherlock couldn't move backwards without looking like he was surrendering or forwards without creating undesirable proximity between Moriarty and himself.

"You know what," Sherlock snapped.

Jim smirked. There was glee in every feature. It lit his face up with a sickening glow. "Oh, please! Don't you tell me that you feel _sorry _for what happened to that lump of useless flesh?" he said with a shrill laugh. Sherlock fought tooth-and-nail not to blink, to maintain that stone-cold facade, but it was getting difficult, with that manic laugh up so close to him, with that brand of toothpaste and minty chewing gum.

"Fuck you." He growled. Anger wasn't exactly the most predominant emotion in him, but this time, with Moriarty's vile and creepy presence a scantful inches away from him, and the way in which he was laughing even after having killed a person for absolutely no reason at all, anger and frustration poured out through his veins.

But Jim only smirked, "My pleasure." Sherlock was losing, he felt like he was losing a game he wasn't willing to play.

"I was stalking you, after all," he said with a sick grin on his face, the one that made Sherlock's skin crawl into itself, "But were you really thinking that Powers died because he was _electrocuted_?" He began laughing out loud, clutching his stomach, doubling up with humour that Sherlock didn't find funny, not in the slightest. Carl might have been a bully, but he was an innocent person. His family had dreams for him, and Sherlock had seen how his mother had cried when he had tried to convince them for autopsy.

But how did Jim know that he thought Powers was electrocuted? There was only one person he had shared his doubts with. Surely not, did Molly _tell_ him that? Did she? How could she, after he had tried to convince her?

"Is this a confession then?" Sherlock tried the other way, instead of admitting that he was trying to find what exactly killed Powers. Jim looked at him, his eyes running eagerly over every line of his face. He gave a burst of almost manic, stunted laughter.

"Oh, _good_! Very good, Sherlock. You can talk. You _want_ to know how I did it, don't you?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and then pushed past him, desperate to get out of there, leaving the fallen book on the floor itself.

"You really don't think I would be _so_ obvious, hmm Sherlock?" He called out loud, and Sherlock could hear the scraping of a heavy door against the floor in an instant, "I'm disappointed in you, ordinary stupid Sherlock, I'm disappointed! This is what you think of me, you underestimate me?! I feel so sad."

He wanted to keep walking away like it didn't matter to him. He wanted to reach for his phone and begin recording it, the confessions Jim Moriarty made in front of him, and rid him from his life, Molly's life, but the tiniest bit in Jim's voice, that suggested that Jim knew Sherlock's greatest weakness and now he was trying to manipulate him made him turn and storm back towards Jim.

"I could destroy your whole world, Sherlock," Jim spat, nothing, absolutely nothing betraying the usual tone of voice he used as he clicked his fingers, "Just like that, and you would do nothing but only watch as I tear it apart one by one."

Sherlock stared down at Jim with intense loathing in his voice, the sort he had never thought he would feel, the sort he had thought himself to be above it all. But he did not utter a single sound. Pleased with the lack of response from Sherlock, which Jim knew as total attention, he went on.

"You and I are above that... above all these silly people. They're _meant_ to bear the weight of a few who rise to greatness. Like you and I."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed momentarily, "You think?"

He didn't try to flinch as Jim's hands approached him, taking a huge liberty like he owned him. His eyes darted everywhere to find a security camera. There wasn't any. He couldn't help but congratulate Jim inwardly upon successfully cornering him in such an area. Jim's hands went to his neck and his fingers, his delicate, quivering fingers that looked like frozen to death to Sherlock adjusted his collar which lay askew on the V-neck of his jumper. Sherlock sucked in a breath and kept it there preciously, not wanting to exhale, and yet not wanting to give Moriarty the satisfaction that he could make Sherlock hold his breath. His entire body remained stiff and taut as Jim fixed his collar and brushed his hands, soft and unbelievably warm fingers under his shivering pulse.

"I could _burn_ this whole university down, Sherlock," he tiptoed and breathed near his neck, "and deep down inside, you know it already, don't you?"

Sherlock splayed his hands flat on Jim's chest and shoved him away sharply, "None of your mindfucking games work on me."

For the tiniest second, Sherlock thought that he had heard the ghost of a surprised yelp leave Jim's mouth before he let out another shrill laugh, "Oh, but we both know that's not tru-ue!

"You want me to mindfuck you over and over again till you can hardly bear it, otherwise you still wouldn't be standing here, would you?"

Sherlock suppressed a shiver that ran through him at that, feeling intimidated at that, his palms clammy as another book struggled to break free from his grip. Nevertheless, he blew his chest up and towered over Jim, although the way Jim looked at him made him feel like they were at the same height.

Without another word, he made a poor attempt to go away to some calm place, but not when Jim cried out, "I'll destroy everyone you love, Sherlock. Starting with your beloved Molly. I _will_ do it, Sherlock, just like I did Carl. Until you beg me to stop, until you beg for mercy. _Twice_."

"I've never begged for mercy in my entire life—"

"Twice, Sherlock," Brown eyes full of glee met cold sea-green ones, "But don't you want a clue? How I did it, since you can't figure it out? One of my personal favourites, by the way—"

"No," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. He wanted to start walking back towards the steps leading to the second floor but he found that he was inexplicably rooted to his spot. Nevertheless, he dragged his protesting feet away from the repulsive, strange and yet alluring field that Jim created around himself.

"You do!" Jim called in a sing-song voice from behind him. "I know you do, Sherlock!" Sherlock clenched his teeth together. His name sounded like a taunt every time Jim used it.

"Tell me then," He spat, turning to him. "Tell me how you killed an innocent boy for no reason at all!"

Jim burst into very ungainly giggles, "Oh my goodness! Look at the oh-so-moral man! I thought Molly was the only dimwit you cared about, although in her defence, you can give her some credit even if she's blind as an owl—"

"What do you want?" Sherlock growled.

"They tell me you're brilliant," Jim breathed, his demeanour rapidly and unpredictably changing again. "Prove it. Get me expelled."

"I could tell them what you did," Sherlock said, almost transfixed by the look that had come into Jim's eyes so suddenly and sharply.

Jim took a step towards him, the smirk carefully tucked back in the corners of his mouth. "You'll see one day, dearie. You think you're best friends with her, and you think your marks and you wandering around like some sort of peace judge by helping Powers will make you look like a hero. One day, when they turn against you, when the _mob mentality_ rises in them, you'll see Sherlock. Mark my words.

"The ones that you thought were your friends will turn against you. They'll betray you, Sherlock. And I will destroy them."

"You hate this place," Jim said softly. Sherlock could sense him moving closer to him, seeping into his personal space and dampening the air around them with poison but he didn't move. "You would destroy it if you got the chance, wouldn't you?"

"That's the difference between you and me," Sherlock said quietly. "I don't set out to destroy something just because I don't like it."

Jim gave a low laugh and reached towards him. Sherlock felt like his throat constrict when he felt Jim's fingers encircle his wrist, his eyes never leaving his face. His fingers grazed his pulse point, and Sherlock's fluttered accordingly, as if Jim controlled it. "I could destroy your whole world, Sherlock."

Sherlock's heart leapt up in his throat at the reminder of two names: John and Molly. He willed himself not to flinch at that, to not let his breath pick up at that. But Jim had seen, had understood.

"Oh, oh, oh! Don't tell me!" he exclaimed, looking back at Sherlock with an almost wild expression. "So, he's in university, is he?"

Sherlock's insides twisted painfully at the thought of John, at the thought of what Moriarty could do to him if he found out. Instead, he tried to steady himself at the momentary distraction as his lips trembled at the thought. He didn't reply, hoping that he didn't give himself away to Jim's careful eyes, his ever observing blank void stare.

Jim seemed to snap back to life. He gave a delighted laugh. "Let's not be so _obvious_, Sherlock."

His throat felt dry as Jim hungrily eyed a single rivulet of sweat running down his right temple. He only gave him a derisive wink, "I'll find out who it is sooner or later, Sherlock. I can promise you that much."

Sherlock finally exhaled the breath he had been holding in his crumpled lungs.

"Oh, and by the way, good luck for your autopsy."

And with that, he was out, out of his eyes, as Sherlock swallowed bile down his throat and shoved his books into his bag.

Why would Jim do that? Why would he kill Powers?

And why Powers? Why not some much more stupid person? After all, Jim had said that some people deserved to be placed above others. Powers was much above the intellect of others.

But why would _anyone_ do that? No sane person would kill another man just because he needed to prove himself, would he?

But Jim wasn't sane, was he? He was psychotic. Sherlock didn't know what dim part of Molly's brain couldn't see it.

And if he told anybody about this, that Moriarty was involved in this (which he certainly wasn't going to, he knew that much), nobody would believe him. After all, who wouldn't believe charismatic, charming, sweet, sugar-boy Jimmy as opposed to heartless, awkward and rude Sherlock Holmes?

Would John believe him?

He didn't even talk to him. He had forgotten that Sherlock even existed, that there was still a student who tried to just _be_ a student in a class with a professor that he fancied, that Sherlock still missed the feeling of surging adrenaline that only John could bring inside him. He would never, ever admit to John just how much he missed him. It would be too humbling.

John didn't even know how precious he was to Sherlock. And that Sherlock would do anything not to bring to light the nature of their relationship—if only one could call it that—in front of Jim.

He thought whether he should warn John. He knew he would sound mad, delusional, pathetic, paranoid, and he knew that John would certainly kick him out again and maybe file a lawsuit of stalking against him and he knew that if he managed to reach even within a metre of John, he would end up pinning him against the wall and start sodomizing him right there in front of whomever was shameless enough to watch.

No. He wasn't going to do that. It was painfully obvious to the world that he had nothing for Sherlock. Even Sherlock himself thought so.

He could still feel Jim watching him, even if he wasn't present there physically.

Sherlock began walking to wherever his feet could carry him on their own accord. It was his study hour, and he was free as a bird. He tried to wonder why Moriarty would tell him, give him clues. What did he want from Sherlock?

The autopsy should reveal that.

* * *

The autopsy was a major backfire.

Powers hadn't died of electric shock as well. Sherlock had already realised when they had let him see Powers' body (very, _very_ unwillingly, saying that it wasn't allowed and then Sherlock was allowed only when he told the pathology resident that stealing Ritalin supplies was also not allowed), he had realised that it couldn't be a electric shock. There was no burn mark on his finger, and there was no way in which fibrillation could've been the cause of death.

It was obvious as hell. How would the muscles of his heart be influenced if it was the muscles in his hand which should've been affected?

He had underestimated Moriarty, his brains. He shouldn't have done that.

Powers had died of natural causes. No cardiac arrest inducing drugs were found or no antipsychotics which Sherlock had earlier suspected because he had (jokingly) thought that Jim might be on them.

Sherlock tried to argue with them that Powers was regularly on his meds. His mother cried her eyes out for the umpteenth time. Molly apologized to them for the inconvenience, and Sherlock talked with the moderately intelligent pathology resident a little more, when he found out that his knowledge was a little incomplete.

She simply told him that Powers was, _had to be_ off his meds. There were no traces of any of those compounds. And then she told Sherlock that he was really inconsiderate and that he should've respected the parents' wishes.

Sherlock paid no attention to it. How did Jim do this, induce a cardiac arrest? As Molly drove him back to his flat that late night, Sherlock kept thinking, turning it around and around, hoping to see it from a different angle. Powers never forgot his meds, or was that a faulty assumption? He had no way to determine that.

He tried to reconstruct what must have happened during the exam. He had seen Powers' fingers, his thumbs and he could see it written on them that he used a click pen. The black one found upon his body wasn't a click pen. He tried to imagine what could have happened with the assumption that Powers didn't take his meds. He must have pushed the retraceable cylinder downwards, and he had begun to write. As his exam paper suggested, he had written quite an amount with the blue ink before he had lapsed into cardiac arrest. Therefore, it was something that wasn't quick, unlike electric shock.

His phone buzzed absently in his pocket. He didn't pick up. He was sure that it was Mycroft bugging him again. He simply stared dreamily out of the window.

He thought about why those compounds in Powers' meds would be absent from his bloodstream. One, he hadn't taken them. Two, he had somehow been given an antidote which counteracted the compounds present for long enough to cause the cardiac arrest. But nothing of that nature had been found in his body and there was bound to be some quantity remaining in his blood, and autopsy should've revealed that. Suppose that antidote was there in his water, how would Jim know that Powers would drink the exact amount to counteract the effects of the medication?

Yet, he was more inclined towards the option two. It really didn't matter to him whether he could or couldn't prove Moriarty's guilt. He just wanted to figure out how he did it, without Moriarty telling him, had he had no idea why he wanted to do that.

Moriarty hadn't been in the same room as Powers. He had to have an accomplice, and maybe if Sherlock found out who, maybe then he could establish his guilt by going through the accomplice.

But the missing pen bugged him the most. Why would it go missing? What purpose would be gained by that? Was it the murder weapon? Likely not. The electrocuting was an outlandish thing, although very easy. All one needed to do was up the current, and make it AC current instead of DC. But this, this was far more outlandish.

Why was Moriarty doing this? What did he gain from all this? What was he doing, killing an innocent boy just to play around with Sherlock and watching him dance?

He had to find that missing pen. Every classroom had a security camera in the corner, and it must have recorded who had taken that pen and it must have recorded what had exactly happened during the exam. Sherlock was certain that it was the missing pen which held the answers.

He stole a glance at Molly, sweet, innocent, brave and loyal Molly. Would she agree to it, watching the tapes in the control room? No, she would tell him that it was illegal, and she was always such a frightened little mouse. And would she tell Jim about it, even if he asked her not to? For the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself doubting his trust on Molly. She could let it slip anytime, she wasn't as careful or as clever as Moriarty was , was she?

All he knew was that Molly couldn't be trusted any more. At least not until she broke up with Jim, which was proving to be increasingly difficult for Sherlock.

He hated Moriarty. Hated him for not being able to trust his own best friend.

"Here we are," she pulled up near 221B, and Sherlock groaned, letting out an exasperated sigh.

"What is my brother doing here?" Said he, glaring at the door knocker and the 'B' which had lost one of its screws.

"Good night then," Molly shook her head and took off, while Sherlock continued to talk to himself.

"He's straightened the knocker. He always corrects it. He's OCD. Doesn't even _know_ when he does it."

He turned back towards the street to see Molly was already gone. Rolling his eyes, he deliberately pushed the door knocker to one side, letting himself in as he hurried up the steps to find Mycroft sitting in _his_ favourite armchair.

"Should pick your phone up, brother dear," he chastised as Sherlock heaved an all-suffering sigh, "Sherlock, are you sure—"

"Get out of my flat!" he snapped, "I've had a bad enough day."

But Mycroft smiled an entirely insincere smile as he took a flash drive out of his breast pocket and set it down on Sherlock's desk after finding a clean enough place for it, "Seeing as I'm the one who pays your rent and your bills Sherlock, I'm allowed to stay here as long as I like... But if you really need to move back to Mummy's, you should tell me the _real_ reason."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "Aren't I allowed to miss my own mother?"

Mycroft forced a chuckle out of his self-important mouth, "Don't be so obtuse. Sherlock... I'm warning you again. He's your teacher—"

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked exasperatedly, changing the subject to anything, anything else at all.

Mycroft looked down to check the shine of his shoes as he awkwardly leant his weight on his poor umbrella. Sherlock and Molly had had a wager on how long Mycroft's new umbrella would survive. Needless to say, Sherlock had lost.

When Sherlock looked up again, Mycroft was looking at him steadily. He pursed his lips together, rolling the words around in his mouth like he was tasting them. And then, to Sherlock complete and utter annoyance, he dropped that expression altogether, instead choosing a well-cultivated mask of humourless humour, "Check your phone, and whatever is there on that flash drive. I'm out of here."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Mycroft wanted to say something else but he had decided against it, and he couldn't be bothered to find out what it was, seeing that it always was some triviality, "That's all? You came, you _travelled_ all the way from Pall Mall till here at this time of night to give me a flash drive and to inform me to check my phone."

Mycroft smiled, " Aren't I allowed to miss my own brother?"

And with that, and very loud footsteps, he was gone, leaving Sherlock utterly bemused. He took out his phone, and was welcomed by endless number of missed calls from...

"John?!" Sherlock's heart pumped hard and fast in his chest upon seeing his name and the sheer number of times he had called him, texted him, sent him slurred drunken voicemails. He closed his eyes and frowned darkly upon seeing them, not bringing himself to read every single of them. He now knew what the flash drive was about... or he had at least a clue. With a heart of stone, he plugged it into his laptop...

* * *

"Any questions, Mr. Holmes?" John paused in his lecture to glare at Sherlock over the tops of his glasses the next day. "You've been quiet."

Sherlock looked up at him to send that glare reeling backwards in John's direction. He thought he would be furious, after all John had no right to bang on the front door of his flat and traumatise Mrs. Hudson, the dear old lady who presumably didn't tell Sherlock anything because Mycroft was going to deal with it in his own manner. He thought he would look upon at John with nothing less than disgust upon having shown up drunk in the first place, or he thought he would at least be pissed with John for first rejecting him in his sober state and then cursing him when he was inebriated. He felt embarrassment, actual embarrassment that his brother had to come down at his flat at such a time to ensure that Sherlock was alright and that people at Mycroft's disposal had to manhandle John.

And he called himself a bloody professor. And he said that it wasn't right. And he had said that Sherlock won't come find him or talk to him or follow him. Hypocrite.

Sherlock felt nothing but nothingness, like he should've somehow expected this from him. He clenched his jaw, and continued scribbling his pen against paper uselessly, not letting sentiment betray his composure to John, or Jim who sat two benches behind him.

"No sir," said he, sounding bored, "None at all."

Sherlock could feel Jim's penetrating but somehow vacant gaze assessing the topography of the back of his shoulders carefully, looking for some hitch or some giveaway. He no longer sat with Jim when he found out that he couldn't tolerate the feeling of being even within a metre of him. Molly looked surprised and a little miffed at that. Sherlock yawned despite himself and stretched his legs to his fullest.

John was a hypocrite. He had followed whatever he had said to the letter. But how dare he show up drunk at his doorstep? Sherlock could only thank the autopsy that he didn't have to witness that. He wasn't sure he could take the sight of John cursing him, calling him names like that. He had stayed away, hadn't he? The coldness in his eyes made John flinch a little bit, and for the tiniest bit, the stern-professor-facade slipped away to reveal the guilt in him.

John turned his back to him, and continued with his lecture until he called the class dismissed. Still turning in his mind the ways to get to the control room and feeling the flash drive in his pocket to transfer the footage into, Sherlock rose from his desk, and tucked his shirt into his jeans before walking out by himself and not bothering to join Molly and Jim.

"Mr. Holmes?" He heard a tetchy voice behind him. It was Monday and Sherlock tried not to recall the conversations he had had with John back when they were just teacher and student. Sherlock bit the insides of his cheeks. He couldn't ignore John calling for him. He really couldn't. It was the first time John had spoken to him in weeks, the first time John had even acknowledged Sherlock's existence, beyond a generous grade and vague comment on Sherlock's assignments, since the day he'd told Sherlock to pretend they'd never made love.

But he didn't want to hear any silly "sorry" stories and excuses for his inexcusable behaviour. If that was as close as he could come to conversation with John, he'd rather not have it. He didn't want to waste his time in something that meant nothing at all. He had to go up the control room, steal his way into it...

"May I talk to you for a moment?"

Sherlock spun around, all cold eyes assessing whether this was going to be of any value, "What is it?"

John waited till every student had left and then he locked the door behind him. For some very irrational reason, Sherlock wanted to protest at that, but when he saw John's red face, he closed his mouth and waited for him to start. And this time, he wasn't going to give in like he did last time.

"Take a seat," John waved him towards the chair closest to his desk. Just to annoy him, Sherlock took the other chair and he saw John notice that. John blinked twice, pausing to say something, but then he thought better of it.

"Look here, Mr. Holmes—"

Sherlock exhaled a breath he didn't know he had been holding, "Look, either you can talk and drop that ridiculous charade of 'Mr. Holmes' when it doesn't matter to me what you call me—after whatever you called me yesterday."

John's face was as red as a beetroot as he avoided Sherlock's eyes. "You weren't there."

"No," he leaned back in his chair, "My brother gave me the area CCTV tape, perhaps to teach me a hard-earned lesson."

"Oh Jesus!" John ran his fingers through his hair and groaned in dismay, "I had thought—I had—"

"Nice touch too," Sherlock exclaimed as bitterly as he could, "Calling my mobile a hundred times and leaving... inspirational slurred texts and voicemails, that too."

John had never felt anything as humiliating as this, Sherlock could tell by the way he winced at the weakness in his own voice. His heart called out for him, swelling up at an alarming rate at the sight of him. He felt like every part of his body had begun to ache as his breathing picked up, forcing itself down his throat and into his oxygen-deprived lungs.

"I didn't mean to inconvenience you." John said sheepishly. Sherlock laughed humourlessly.

"Right, that's all you've got to say—"

"What do you want me to say?" John snapped. "I'm sorry I got drunk and had your brother take me away?!"

"You said it," said Sherlock, looking at him, his features curled into a cold snarl that was drier and angrier than John had ever remembered him being all those months ago, and he blanched at the thought of having contributed to such bitterness. "I didn't know you had such high opinion of me," Sherlock continued dryly.

John's navy blue eyes latched onto Sherlock's grey ones guiltily, "I could say the same for you."

So, the verbal volleyball was in his court now. Sherlock tossed it around, preparing for a smash hit to his defences, "You have no idea."

With that, he stood up and strutted across to the door, when a single word stopped him in his tracks. "Sherlock."

He froze in his steps, remembering all the times, the intimacy associated with the way John took his name while he orgasmed inside him, the time he had been pinned between Sherlock's sweaty body above him and the mattress under him. It felt like an entire universe had reopened between them as he took his name.

"I believe you, by the way."

There it was, but Sherlock held himself back, kept his back stiff to John. He felt his heart rate pick up at that. John believed him, of all people, he believed him. But he needed to confirm it, even though he knew what he had heard. John had a most amazing talent of denial, "Pardon?"

"The... erm—the Powers thing..." Sherlock melted at how weak and vulnerable and hesitant John sounded, "I... about the Powers thing, I—I think it's odd... too, the murder—"

Sherlock wanted to snap at him, to ask him how, and why he was saying this.

"Is this a pathetic way to make up for your actions yesterday?" Sherlock turned to him, this time his voice calmer than usual, "Or are you just giving me false symp—"

"I mean it," John interrupted, his voice as steady as a game man facing a firing squad, "Powers wouldn't do anything like that. He was one of the most meticulous people I've ever met. If it were such a life-threatening condition, he would never have got off them."

Sherlock studied him for a few minutes, eyeing him with all hostility he could gather. John seemed to believe him, to trust whatever conspiracy theories he had been making since Day One.

"How do you know it was murder?" Sherlock breathed, his voice uncharacteristically incredulous as his face dropped, fell somehow at once both entirely expressionless and unguarded for the shortest of moments.

John took a step back, "I didn't kill him, if that's what you mean." This made Sherlock smile, just a little half-smile, before a memory came to him.

_I could destroy your whole world, Sherlock,_ came Jim's sing-song voice. He swallowed, trying to get his breath back before stealing a look at John, meeting his heavy gaze with his own. His face was so open, so unguarded and he didn't know if he would be able to take it if Jim somehow knew what they were hiding from the rest of the world.

It was probably the stupidest thing Sherlock could have done in that one moment of weakness; a foolhardy, reckless, inconceivable thing.

It was also a necessary thing.

John could do this. John could help him. Even if he had told himself that he would never ever get near the alluring danger that was John, he couldn't stay away.

He held his breath in his lungs, waiting for him to say yes after every time John had said no.

* * *

"No," said John very firmly, crossing his arms in his best "don't-argue-with-me" pose. It always worked on Harry before. Once or twice, anyway. "Absolutely not." He knew, or he tried to convince himself that this may be the only way in which Sherlock could forgive him for being so horrible to him. He was young after all, and John knew he shouldn't have been so cruel to him, but it was the only way, and it worked, didn't it? But it was he who couldn't stay away. Didn't want to stay away.

"But _why _not?" Sherlock asked impatiently, all of their previous hesitation forgotten. John could see Sherlock opening up but this wasn't the scenario he had expected. He had never expected to get entangled with Sherlock again, but now, here he was because he just couldn't stay away. Not when it came to Sherlock. The yesterday night had just proved it, and through all the embarrassment, he managed to say a big no.

"Because I don't fancy being arrested. Or my job being compromised."

John couldn't understand how Sherlock could be so normal, so... like what he used to be to him before all that. How could he? How?

"Oh, John." Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh, linking his ankles together and leaning against the wall of John's room. It was like nothing had happened between them, except John was continuously reminded of it in every manner. Sherlock simply huffed in an all-too familiar manner that made hot blood rise shamelessly in John's neck and his face.

"There's very little chance that we would get arrested for watching the university CCTV tapes—"

"_Illegally _watching the CCTV tapes," John corrected him, "I can't let you do this, as a teacher."

"—and anyway I'm the one doing the illegal bit," Sherlock continued, unabated. "You'll just be distracting him. And you get to keep your pathetic job."

John rubbed a hand across his forehead. "How do you even know those will be there? I bet it has already been erased."

"They're too stupid to do that," Sherlock spoke, looking a bit preoccupied, "All I have to do is sneak back into the office and watch them while you distract the campus guard."

John frowned. "Why don't you copy them yourself? It would be quicker, so there would be less chance of getting caught."

Sherlock smirked, and John realized belatedly that he had just been tricked into behaving like he had already agreed to do this. It was just like old times, bickering and arguing. John wished, how badly he wished to be that again. The things that John didn't acknowledge to him still vibrated and echoed in the space between them, even if he tried to deny it, even if Sherlock behaved like he was alright with it whereas deep-down inside, even if it didn't show on his face, John knew how hurt he must be. Because after all that had happened, John couldn't bear to be in his classrooms or in his office, couldn't bear to walk the corridors and think of what had occurred inside and beyond them, and what he'd let escape out of them like so many wisps of cigarette smoke, and if this was what he felt, he couldn't imagine what Sherlock did.

Nevertheless, he still walked and taught normally and laughed away without Sherlock and his obscene jokes and his flirtatious remarks, and with an even voice, just an even voice...

"I'm not saying I'm going to help you—"

"Oh, come on, John," Sherlock breathed, and suddenly he was standing very, very close. John's pulse sped up. His well-honed senses prickled but he could feel the warmth emanating from Sherlock's body and see his pale eyes alight with the promise of adventure. For a mad moment, John imagined grabbing his face and kissing him breathless right there. His whole body tingled with need and desire and longing. He restrained himself with a tight swallow and a cough at that. God knew he missed him and that he was never going to admit to him or to himself just how much.

"Have a little fun, for once in your life," Sherlock whispered, stepping away, looking almost regretful, and John's heart gave a foolish pang at that. "Stop being so responsible. That's not really who you are."

The truth of this hit so hard that John was almost angry, but then Sherlock turned around, expecting John to follow, and there he was, not caring that his next class would start in half-an-hour and that this was illegal, and so, so wrong and that it was so good to be wrong and that he could be thrown out of the university and he didn't want that. So, he followed Sherlock out, ignoring all the little warning bells pealing in his head.

"Yes. Yes, fine, yes, I'll help you break into the campus security system, damn you," he said in a rush of intoxicating adrenaline as he jogged to keep up with Sherlock. "You win."

* * *

It was the most heartbreakingly wonderful thing, helping Sherlock, following his commands, going up the routes in St. B that John had never known could exist. He knew that he wouldn't be forgiven even after this, but there was this narrow window that he saw open as the hard edge of Sherlock's impenetrable barrier sagged ever so slightly, and he took a jump through it gracelessly.

And he had no idea why.

Sherlock instructions were clear. Distract the guard till Sherlock went in to copy the security footage for that hour between the start of the exam till the moment he came in. John had agreed to it standing on one leg. It's easier than John expected—and a hell of a lot more fun. Sherlock went in first, and to John's amusement was almost pushed away by the security guard and accused him of public intoxication, for Sherlock was pretending to be drunk.

He returned to the corner where John was hiding and looked delighted although John didn't realise what was there to be so happy about. Sherlock dialled a number that he didn't recognise. John kept reminding him that he had to go to a class in the next twenty minutes, but Sherlock kept shushing him.

"Harold?" Sherlock squeaked in a comically and believably female voice despite the rumbling baritone, and John had to try hard not to choke on his own laughter, "Darling, you there?"

John leaned in to listen into the phone, "Who's this?" came a feminine voice from the other line. Sherlock's voice became surprised and a little snarkish, "Who're you?"

"I say, who're you?"

John mouthed, _Who's she?_ Sherlock mouthed something back that John didn't realise and didn't see how it was going to help them.

"You give the phone to my boyfriend," Sherlock squealed in that same feminine voice, and waited for a litany of curses from the other side. After some argument, John suspected that Sherlock got bored and cut the phone off.

"Jealous possessive girlfriend," Sherlock explained, and John nodded mutely, wondering what had happened there, "I went in, pick-pocketed him, memorised the phone number."

Sure enough, after a couple of moments, the control room guard's phone rang out and he retreated to a corner to pacify his girlfriend. This was so wrong, John thought as Sherlock sneaked into the control room. Was everything normal between the two of them? No. Hardly. John could see that Sherlock avoided talking or contact if at all possible, except for a vague explanation just like he had treated Sherlock all this time. Sherlock didn't smile the way he used to smile at him. The intense sparks which lit up in his belly whenever Sherlock looked at him were now only a duplicate shadow. They were, as was the common parlance, avoiding each other. At least Sherlock was doing that. John had no idea what _he_ was doing.

John knew that as soon as Sherlock arrived with the footage copied in his flash drive, he wasn't going to spare him a second look. He was going to go away, leaving John alone there to teach his class, which was going to start in fifteen minutes.

He saw the security guard keeping his phone down after screaming silently that she needed to shove it and that he was breaking up with her. John felt guilty at that, but that was overridden by the tension that Sherlock was still in there doing God-knows-what.

Adrenaline spiked through John, throwing all his senses into overdrive. Just as he though he was afraid that he would seize up, giving the whole game away and letting Sherlock down, a sort of miraculous calm came over him, and he felt as though he was looking at the situation from quite some distance. As if it were purely academic, the question of what to do next.

It took him a few conversations about bad and annoying girlfriends with the bemused security guard before he decided to take his leave when he saw Sherlock trying to sneak out of there. John saw the STAFF ONLY door open a crack, a sliver of Sherlock's face visible, searching the corridor to make sure no one was watching. John gave him a tiny nod and Sherlock slipped out, switching immediately into casual student, bystander mode.

Warmth crept across John's cheekbones as Sherlock's eyes met his and the gaze lingered, and for the first time in many days, John felt a little off-kilter.

And then his eyes turned cold again and he disappeared around the corner. John followed behind, feeling elated and embarrassed at the same time after having left the security guard so abruptly. The latter feeling vanished when he saw no sign of Sherlock near the place where he thought he would be waiting for him.

John told himself breathlessly that he understood, that he deserved that sort of treatment after yesterday's event and dragged his way to his class only to be met by the sight of Sherlock and Jim talking somewhere in the corridor. John felt like a schoolboy when he hid behind a corner and decided to observe them.

He could tell that Sherlock wasn't exactly comfortable with Jim, and yet like he usually did, he didn't choose to run away or just ask Jim to stuff it. John could honestly tell that, even though Sherlock was probably the bravest person he had ever met, he could tell that he was genuinely afraid of the way Jim reached out for him. Then, Sherlock shoved him away, and John saw a side of Jim Moriarty he thought he would never see: the manic, high-pitched laughter which sounded like breaking glass to his ears. His senses were screaming to him to go to Sherlock, to lead him away like he did with those bullies and even Dean Hope once upon a time.

"Don't you want to know _how _I killed him, Sherlock? You're going the right way, sexy."

And then Sherlock's eyes met his. He looked, to John's utter horror and disbelief, terrified. He didn't know that Sherlock could be terrified, even. His pale face which had been a little coloured blanched immediately. When he saw Moriarty's head turning towards him, he took it as his cue to duck and leave, his heart hammering ceaselessly in his chest as he contemplated his exit routes.

"Who is it?" He heard footsteps, followed by Moriarty's now completely normal voice, "Come out and play!" He heard another heavier set of footsteps, and he knew Sherlock was following Jim. A moment later, he heard the thud of a single body against the small followed by that of a strangled whisper, "Go fuck yourself, Moriarty."

At this point, John's alarm beep in his phone rang out, signalling that his class was about to begin, audible enough for both of them to hear. He turned around, and promptly left for his class, unable to process what he had just heard from Moriarty's mouth.

* * *

Just before the end of the day, John began piling his various papers, books, and other detritus from his desk in his office, organising his workplace for a fresher tomorrow. There was a hesitant knock on his door.

"Yeah, come in," John called absently, not bothering to see who had come in as he continued to clean his desk.

Sherlock was standing in the doorway, looking straight through John, a slight crease in his eyebrows. Knowing that it was rare for Sherlock to use profanity on anyone, the unpleasant memories of the bullying episode with Moriarty returned and he waved him into a seat with a nod, waiting patiently for him to start. He wasn't going to—

"I thought... maybe you'd like to watch this," Sherlock held up the flash drive, and spoke in a tone that was both hard and bashful at the same time.

"Oh," John managed rather intelligently. He hadn't expected that, "I—erm—"

"I suppose if you don't want to—" Sherlock began, almost ready to walk out of there, but John maintained a straight face, speaking plainly, evenly, difficultly.

"I'd like that."

With a sharp nod, Sherlock shifted to sit on a chair beside John and plugged the flash drive into John's computer, and clicked on the file as Sherlock watched the whole thing with his full, undivided attention as he triumphantly pointed out how Powers had taken his meds, like he knew him to be. John foolishly felt that he should say something.

"Listen… about what happened between us—"

"That's over. It's in the past. Done," Sherlock looked down and pretended to fast forward the clip. His attempt at a careless demeanour was betrayed by the unsubtle bobbing of his right thigh beneath the desk.

"It's not. Not really for me," John replied.

Sherlock paused it and looked up, his eyes open and expressive once more. "What are you saying?" He asked carefully.

"I suppose I'm saying I was wrong. About all of it... I was wrong to seek you out and let you make yourself so vulnerable. I was wrong for implying that you were the only one who made a mistake. I was wrong to let you leave." John swallowed in a harsh gulp, and then continued. "I was horrible to you, and I never apologized. I shouldn't have—"

"Stop." Sherlock's eyes appeared uncharacteristically wet and John looked away, offering him a moment of privacy. He turned back when Sherlock cleared his throat and straightened the line of his torso. "That's unimportant now," he added, quietly, and shifted in his seat. John hesitantly put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock didn't flinch away.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I am," John said, "about all of it, about yesterday. I can't say I don't mean whatever I said, but—"

Sherlock didn't smile one of his rare, genuine little half-smiles, and John dropped his hand disappointedly, letting it lie on the arm of the chair in the space between them, a scant handful of centimetres from Sherlock's own as Sherlock continued watching the clip.

Finally, he spoke.

"You mean—you meant that I—I destroyed your life..." John could hear him speak with difficulty, but he managed to. At least. He looked down guiltily.

"Then why don't you simply ask me to get out of your life? Why do you keep running in circles—"

"Because..." John swallowed, gulped like a helpless fish. There was nothing he could say which would sound proper and which would not drive Sherlock away.

He bit his lip, "Because... I don't want you to."

Sherlock paused the clip again, and John could see the index finger on the mouse trembling, a twitch jumping right under his skin. John was tempted to touch it.

"You don't or you wouldn't?"

John knew what Sherlock was implying, and no, this wasn't out of guilt. This was out of need, out of necessity, tainted with selfishness.

"I... I can't..." And words became difficult for John here. He didn't remember the last time he had found it so difficult force words out of his throat, and he knew Sherlock could see tears gathering at the corner of his eyes like a girl's, "I'm sorry."

"Why?" This time, Sherlock's voice was much harder, not croaky, not weak. He didn't need knowledge, John knew, or at least pretended that Sherlock could hear what he wasn't saying, only that Sherlock, like he always did, needed reassurance.

"Let's... focus on the footage, shall we?" John cleared his throat, and clicked 'Resume', avoiding Sherlock's fingers deliberately even though his entire body tingled with anticipation upon feeling the heat emanating from him, or maybe it was just the thermostat. Sherlock wasn't paying attention, or so he thought, and soon enough, he clicked 'Pause' again.

"What?" He demanded. John knew this was going to happen. He should never have let Sherlock in, not without preparing for the answers he knew he was going to throw in his direction.

"I should've known you'd be like this—"

"What if I leave? Because frankly, I can get into anywhere, even abroad, and you know it John. _You_ always want the best for me don't you? Daddy knows what's best for me—"

"Stop calling me John!"

"What does it matter?" Sherlock snarled looking infuriatingly confused at everything that John threw at him, "Why does it matter to you so much, what I call you when it clearly shouldn't? You want what's best for me? The best option is to leave."

John knew it. Sherlock was better than St. Bart's. Hell, Sherlock was better than all the universities in the world put together. But he wanted him here, didn't he? Because he knew that Sherlock made it all bearable white noise for him, this business of teaching, and that once Sherlock left, John knew he wouldn't be able to stay anymore. If it was only the knowledge that Sherlock was still there and that he attended two classes a week, it was enough for him to be getting on with.

"Don't," John uttered weakly, "Please."

"You're not leading me on," Sherlock said shortly. "I trust you. I wish you trusted me."

John shifted uncomfortably where he was. "I... do..." he said uncertainly.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the monitor, "Look," he said coldly. "I understand. I really do, but you need to decide what you really want. You seem to want both and—"

"You don't! You pretend to be this all-understanding figure. _Oh, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I'm the king of the world and I understand everything because I'm a bloody genius_ but you don't," John retorted. "And I don't need psychology lessons from you of all people."

He didn't reply. John felt an inward pang of irritation and unease. He felt like he had exposed himself in some unforgivable manner, but he was certain he hadn't done anything wrong.

Sherlock turned away. John watched him, looking for some sign that he didn't really think John so fickle and pathetic. He didn't understand. He didn't know how Sherlock could be so certain about another person's feelings.

"You need to make sure this is what you want, John," Sherlock said finally, straightening up in his chair. "I'm not interested in playing games with you."

"What do _you_ want?"

"I'm not playing games here, John." He reminded him again, "You know it. I've been telling you that since months."

"This is what you came for, didn't you?" John let out a humourless laugh and shook his head, wearing his glasses back like some sort of battle armour, "Under the pretext of watching a—"

"Need I remind you, you started it. I'm just trying to end it so that I can focus on this again." He pointed at the monitor in blank frustration. John straightened his back and nodded to himself. He looked stung for a moment and then his features rapidly hardened.

"Fine. Conversation over."

"So you're going to storm off again like a child?" Sherlock snapped, his eyes desperately flickering towards the door. "Why don't you stay long enough so we can talk about it—"

"There's nothing to talk about!" John rounded on him. "You have no understanding of other people! You only care about yourself."

"I care about you... a lot," the words sounded unsteady and clumsy coming from Sherlock's mouth even though there was nothing he could be more sure about. He knew that John was angry and didn't mean it and yet it stung quite a bit, "I didn't know you needed me to tell you that."

John swallowed and sat down beside him, trying to seek comfort in the warmth that radiated from his body, "I've told you, Sherlock—"

"So, you mean we can't be together, and yet you don't want me to go, just leave us hanging... what sort of a verdict is that?"

"You know what's going to happen if people found out, didn't they?"

Sherlock scoffed at that, "You weren't very worried about it today when I broke into the control room."

John took a breath down his pinhole-thin throat. Why was Sherlock being so frustrating when it was so hard to get it out, "That was a one-time thing. And besides you won't be expelled for that, as much as you'll be expelled for being with me—"

"Trust me, I'm more than amenable to that idea."

"I'm not! You'll leave," John snapped finally, letting out his deepest fear and sounding utterly ridiculous, "I can't have that. Happy?"

Sherlock looked like he had suddenly had a grand epiphany. He swallowed, and John knew that no more words were needed. He had spent enough time watching Sherlock to still be able to see the change, to see the instant all the brick and mortar of the wall between them began to crumble like so much sawdust. Sherlock took a deep breath, and clicked it to 'Resume' again.

"There," he pointed at something in Powers' hand hoarsely, "The pen that is missing." He paused it and zoomed the screenshot which he took. It was a click pen.

"Okay," John's voice was equally rough. Sherlock felt a faint stir of longing at that. He clicked 'Resume' again.

Powers went into cardiac arrest, class gathered around him, one or two of them administered the compressions—correctly, Sherlock noted—and then it happened.

A girl approached Powers' desk from the other side and picked up the pen as everyone's attention was on the dying student. Sherlock paused the footage and scanned her features. He didn't even know that she existed. This must be Moriarty's accomplice.

Asian, long straight black hair, Sherlock had never even seen her, but John had, once he turned to him to ask him who it was.

"Hang on, isn't that... Miss Yao?"

Sherlock frowned, "Miss who?"

"Miss Yao," John frowned, "Soo Lin Yao."


End file.
